Glass of Milk

Was a swell commandment: drink up, sleep.  She’d relinquished the vampy black and absconded to her toddler color (muddy sunset) as we, one from each grief stage, commissioned to flock her, petal’d her pale strapless,  pressed the appliqué along her spine with dancer’s glue, all funds sunk into that silk, hence the wan hors d’oeuvres, sheepish flasks, White Album on a loop. Eventual brood snug in her ova, she straightened, candle- brave before that noonday deadline.  Startled nipples got plastered.  A dose of almonds so no swooning during forevers.  Preview of losing it, Skyping with her guru to parse the voice of God thunderstruck into the nib of  a midcentury housewife.  Waking rapturous, un-entombed, to commune with birdsong and him in the mystical five am.  An Oona holding hydrangeas, she was.  Soon  to vanish into a strobing, off-kilter rainstorm,   the frothy whitecaps of a harbor’s embrace and resistance.   There stands her hometown man.  A future of borax- bleached nappies, the Paxil.  She turned us a keen look sailing down satin.  Absolute abandonment, can’t come with, the fox’s grin plunging unabashed into snow drift.

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