“Our trembles and tears are made bright. Dancing across / our cheeks blushing and buzzing with the blossoming weather. / Possibility is today. Happiness is now. The inhale, the exhale.
They say she wears a mask that could launch a thousand ships and that with the purse of her lips, the white-gloved hands she uses to light thin, pretty cigarettes and drink Manhattans that she would launch them.
“We pass it every year, the way the parade passes. Then we arrive home with the last notes of the song, evidence against our staying power, our packaging, upon return, found intact.”
