by

Maw Shein Win

 

nightly the white substance pours out of her mouth and she is a ceramic jug,

tipping over, spilling onto the floor in the kitchen.

      the robin blue pills halved into moons

jimmy, the neighbor, plays his acoustic guitar and his songs riffle through

the curtained windows.

      the radio falling into the bathwater

or, an eye that repeats itself in silent conversation with another eye at three in the morning.

yes, i secretly knew him. much taller than me. he used to be in a band. he was

drinking a beer. then i didn't see him again until the next night.

the radio displayed itself. another gift from evil aunt lydia.

       the radio between stations

he shied away from the other doors and i did too. i watched him wrap himself in

a blanket of nettles.

start here at the intersection of the vines and the trapeze girls swinging through the

forests of san mateo, the streets of redwood city, the doors to the green-windowed clinic.