did your mother ask who do you think you are?

a foot tapping new ice, brocade splayed white on rivulet

the odd wrench in the socket set

one of the self-sowers, flower probably blue

a soapy fluid rounding off an opalescent sphere

so many apples, sauced

the dash for clarity

fairy duster? filaree?

gentle vertigo, a door along the floor

a frail clang, the steep pilgrimage

a page torn unevenly

Notre Dame Review 47 (2019)