twenty-eight days


the slight mention
of your gray mansion
sends phobia down

my wrists, scrawling.
clear sign
that every feature

I enjoyed, carries
on, without my
existence.  your

vitae reads,
"in this house
live 7 people,

one who hated
you; the rest 
60's era

strangers, you
will never know."
even though, in

the seeking, we
shuffled through
houses as if

tarot cards.


in my dreams,
(and yes i
dreamt of you

often) i
men, dark-

haired with
snow flesh,
and the will

to love my
body, once.

one returns
to humor me,
and i begin

to believe
i enjoy
lovers who come

and go
between waking,
the bed still



when i was 19,
death scenarios
paused in their

rumbling by like
traffic, for awhile.
instead i kept 

myself occupied
by seducing friends
at least

once a month.
i was alone,
and it was

good to be
loved.  i
felt like a hole

at the bottom of the
dead sea, but
i told myself:

to survive,
this is how
a modern woman