in some dreams, you can know what year it is without anyone having to say. think: something about a white station wagon in the middle of a field; something about a cream-colored interior torn up by stowaway rats. something about laying down beside it, your yellow hair turning to gold. o, and that little white dress of yours, the color of daisies and angel’s spit; the color of if i don’t move from this spot, somebody will have to find me. now, something about the ticks being bad this season. something about throwing up the sheets to expose sticky legs: the color of roses and girl’s blood. of pulsing and fingernail-pared.
by zoe blue