Paper figurines.
Porcelain nails grinding down a black and blue slate.
A thick September fog dripping with unkempt dreams and a breath of whiskey.
Wickedly simple in its natural state.
A rose on the prowl,
A lion of many thorns.

It’s on punch-drunken nights like these
That my mother would spread her well-wrung limbs across the patio
And stare into the interminable setting sun,
A thinning glass of wine
—waiting patiently to be snuffed out along with the red-orange pulses of an indifferent horizon—
sitting coolly in her hand.

It’s on punch-drunken nights like these
That my mother lit a match to her sanity
And left me nothing to do but watch.