“Form itself, even if completely abstract ... has its own inner sound.” ― Wassily Kandinsky
My teacher says, use whatever you have around.
Scream in a shard of glass.
Shriveled house plant, bent spoon, dried ink splotch under the coffee table.
Shadow side of morning. Cold.
Stack of spines never cracked, voicemail unanswered.
Lampshade. Salt lick. Creaky floorboard. I’m here but the world is closing in tight.
Feather I’ll find in a pocket years from now. Dip of paint.
Lipstick—burnt red. Pale dress. Paired with a saucer of warm milk.
A worry stone. A silk scarf. A scar.
It’s all out of tune. Even the refrigerator’s hum is wet.
Honeycomb. Hairbrush. Tangle of scotch tape.
There’s a song I knew. It lingered near the small of my back. It ached.
Rabbit’s foot. Windchime. Button unstitched.
It was full of possibility. Like grass before the snow.
Like lilac. Like shame.
Also like gunshots down the road that have no mouth,
but are negotiating an avalanche of dark.
