A journal of narrative writing.
Her Soiree

I fed the dog a cheese hors d’oeuvre,
and seeing this, she thrashed him

with her fly-swatter (the beating was
for me), kicking him into the yard,

then marched on, killing mosquitoes,
leaning over people as they talked,

as she pleased, without compunction,
— her orders, her heart transparent,

giving me permission to stop shrinking,
to live less fearfully, to discipline

the splendor of mountains, the textures
of grass, the visible colors of the heart.