I Dwell in Books

I dwell in books, works of art, the afterlife, while doctors gather symptoms and label incurable. A princess wore this disorder, and a well-known beauty; in the Netherlands I qualify for death by euthanasia. My mother and son visit this morning, we stare at his sympathy card: no words, he drew stickmen and flowers and Mother painted it smooth. Papers to sign, radio plays low. Panes of glass shiver in August air; the news broadcasts forest fires, yet forecasted rain still called dirty. My roommate wears the name of my mother’s mother; a ghost I assumed, invisible, until I awoke to her shadow on bed curtains, huge and mute and starving. I call for you, Anne, Sylvia, Franz, Vincent, clouds, rain, storms.

Ariel Dawn

About Ariel Dawn

Ariel Dawn’s prose poetry recently appears in GUEST ( a journal of guest editors), Train: a journal of prose poems, dusie: the tuesday poem, talking about strawberries all of the time, and Coven Editions Grimoire. She writes with Tarot cards and oracles and lives in Victoria, British Columbia.

Ariel Dawn’s prose poetry recently appears in GUEST ( a journal of guest editors), Train: a journal of prose poems, dusie: the tuesday poem, talking about strawberries all of the time, and Coven Editions Grimoire. She writes with Tarot cards and oracles and lives in Victoria, British Columbia.

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