after deer, adore

the photo on the mantle’s framed in oak. it’s mostly out of focus. she’s steady on tiptoe, and her hands are quiet. in the foreground, clear, a crocus blooms blue riot; behind and blurred, legs loom long and gone.

discovery on Sparrow’s face is dawn. she’s thinking, still, about those dueling stags. with antlers foremost [. . .]

what the Sirens said

“they told me,” she told me, “it’s never mattered a whit which song they sang. they could parody a polka and still instill all pirates with that pang. their promise isn’t parceled out in poetry or rhyme; the tempo is what tenders their temptation. it’s what they do with time that sends the sailors overboard [. . .]


“it’s a skyhook,” he said, swinging the cord in slow, faintly humming circles at his side.

Culvert watched closely, clutching tight the coin he’d won from the bragging bride in Brixton. (luck. it clings to such small things.) his eyes were fixed on the man’s hands, the placement of each finger and the wrapping of [. . .]

Sparrow seeks the Sirens

this is from before she lost her key.

she said, “today i’m off to see how many steps it is from here to Siren’s Shore.”

she was gone for half the week (though it seemed more.) when she returned, she didn’t speak to me for seven days and nights. she turned off all the lights, [. . .]