My ribcage x-ray shows demi-flags of fluttery muscle clinging to the bones. The bees come at me stinging my entire body, stuck burrs as they die. One woman leaves through a window, and when she comes back, light in the shape of smoke rings rises from the mouth of my ghost. A person fits perfectly into this to-go bag. And now, I've picked up the skirt of my ball gown, carefully avoiding puddles on the sandy floor, while in cages I see gerbils which also appear on the menu. I rock him as though he's a boat, then, asks him to steer. Old iron beds with gorgeous quilts. While they admire the fish-backed chair, I finish the essay on angioplasty. Help. Help. Help. Help. Help. In this class, I'm unable to identify the mythical flower on the tarot-like card. Choose a uniform: velvet or sheer. He/I let go and fall down the mountain's steepest slope, while into a miniature boat I lay my sister, puffy in chiffon. But, the detectives use my closest friend as bait. Inside the 3-D boxes, the scene is cozy except for the man running from fire.
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With undergraduate and graduate degrees in English literature and creative writing, poetry, from UCLA and UF, Gainesville, Michele Pizarro Harman has published poems in such literary journals and online venues as Quarterly West, The Antioch Review, Mississippi Mud, Midwest Quarterly, Puerto del Sol, Sycamore Review, Berry Blue Haiku, Shepherd’s Check, a handful of stones, and Miriam’s Well. She currently lives with her husband and two of their four children in the small town in Central California where she and her husband grew up; beyond the cows, crows and cranes, she teaches reading, writing, and math to K-6 special-needs students in a public elementary school. She may be found at: www.michelepizarroharman.com.
