her nail polish is chipped in ways that my psychiatrist would call
sub-lim-in-al. i see a rose. a sparrow. a thimble. they (and
i) sit precariously on her fingertips.
"you can call me jude," she says.
hey, jude. my voice sounds like her hands, digging
double entendres out of the cracks. she is yin and i am
yang and we are all such ventriloquists.
it was bound to happen eventually.
when she's gone my mother doesn't understand.
"she dreamed too much," i say.