Pseudopsychosis.

will I drown? the wind twists, and we kiss the flowers; seize the backbone of the root, where our blood is ours. the tree trunk can’t see death;

unparalleled, my father disintegrates. the sunsets are claret as they burst. the glass region, eyed by the ants, flourishes in the light by remembering; eyes, pressing to abandoned wounds in the blood-flow of my poems; i have nothing left to say to you,

like the foreign moon with her breasts,

sunken to asylum

the ashes of Cimmerian tombs, dispatched to the same darkness we see. there is an absence of the black violets, where only dreams are the entryway to my subconscious; self-portraits of my mind. 

the moon bled 

and death retraces memories

this person they no longer know; the woman who is myself. poking like the worm, 

“in their dreams
they sleep with the moon.”

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Written for the dVerse prompt: Write a piece of flash fiction or other prose of up to or exactly 144 words, including the given line, “In their dreams
they sleep with the moon.”–From Mary Oliver, “Death at Wind River”.

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