I bleed a little, peyote tea waits in the refrigerator, a Ferris Wheel rolls and rolls over the highway after the miscarriage, we search for rings with missing stones, unmatched earrings sell our gold, ride the Ferris Wheel bigger than Paris, my parents pray for us, I play Dylan’s “Spanish Boots” over and over, the sunroof fills with stars like watching a film of strangers I recognize but don’t really know Schuyler says you can’t get at sunset naming colors between the liars trees and shopping carts we buy a house, cry in bed, leave the child unnamed pink lemon pearly blue white
Copyright © 2010 by Susan Briante. Used with permission of the author.