It was hidden there,

melting in soft ice.

His tongue, yellow,

and cowering behind

the birdcage.

The fog began to lift

from the mystery as

I crushed a walnut

with the palm of my hand

on the kitchen table.

He looked at me,

and I felt a tug pull from

my swollen womb.

All the proportions

of the room began to shift into

the scars of Prometheus.

His chin bent slightly

to the horizon, and

his eyes fixed neon.

A volcano rumbled

in the distance.

He paused,

"Maybe we should..."

There it was,

the shadow of his former

self became a streak

of red that reflected in

the window.

His smile morphed

into a pitiful grin, and

his words spat cyanide.

"The Nevada desert was so cold

in the winter."

I pinched the walnut shell between my fingers.

"That's fine, you should go."

My face contorted as the door closed, and our unborn child began to bleed.

jolted awake

no soul for a

million miles

only a soft voice

and the sound of

shattering glass

the ghost child

hides in the basement

she died of yellow fever

she is trapped here

and doesn’t know

how to escape

a small black mass

scurries across the floor

I reach for a smoke

to appease the gods

and settle back into

the rich purple and

blue tones of the

television

It is only a matter

of time

before

the sun rises

the gold to mend

my shattered

glass