What was the Question Again?
The color outside her window
was chartreuse. Pink ponies dangled
from the faucet, none of them hers;
as she soaked in the bath,
she made the tiny horses gallop.
They seemed so happy, she, happier
as she slipped beneath the suds.
The woman was black and white;
the woman was pregnant and nude.
The moth clung to the lantern
as if it had finally found love
or the moon. The cat was the color
of snow and ghosts. Her father was cold
and still. The aviatrix flew and fell,
fell and flew. Outside, the green leaves
are falling and dying, dying and falling
under the harvest moon. How many dead
dads have I got? What’s my favorite month?
The month I was born into the night.
One, I thought. My window is black;
the moth is laid out on its back.
I’ve never loved light. October. Two.