Croak. Lost. Cherry tomato wine. Blackberry soup. Slurped like syrup. Pouring down your throat. Coating all sides.
Numbing the words as they gurgle upwards.
Sugar dumplings and sweet potato pies.
Rows of vines and shrubs – rolling hills.
Living somewhere where the baa-ing sheep stir up noise complaints.
Curtains on the window. Looking down. Hiding behind the window panes of love.
Caged. Birds. Thorns. Gnarly protruding roots. What if we didn’t have skin surrounding our tendons?
We’d all look pretty similar I guess. Maybe we would sheer sheep to make fleecy onesies to warm our inside-outsides.
Worms in dirt. Twirling. Writhing. Forward or backward. Wriggling – squiggling.
Tree frogs and snakes.
Slumped shoulders. Sunshine. Sparkling wine. A lightness.
Dry earth. A babbling brook. I’ve never met a Brooke that didn’t babble.
Don’t even get me started on Amanda.
I don’t care.
where rivers are born 