Aisyday is a collector of things.
Hats and canes. Handbags. Scars.
I can’t be sure. I am certain.
She saw me as hard tissue. A door
left ajar. What I said. Honest.
Insecure and reaching.
A ringing nerve along her jawline.
Me. Jarring and disobedient. Always.
Her jealous, boasting a size nine shoe.
Because it’s more than eight.
It’s invisible ink.
A missing decoder pen. Pig Latin.
Us. Going like loose seeds. Different
and all the same. Nine years sloughing.
Becoming dust on a fan blade. Too high
to see. I do. I see her.
In Sprouts standing by organic lemons.
Making a same sour face. Her toddler
handling them all.
I’m hiding, eight months pregnant
in essential oils. Inhaling ylang ylang.
Glancing.
On accident. Grab antiseptic,
tea tree and reel. Remembering:
Her inherited narcissistic traits. My instinct
to make a break. Pass a note that is scissors.
Mostly, a plea for empathy or a lingering
question. Never.
Daisy is a collector of succulents.
Headbands. Toms. Melissa and Doug toys.
I can’t be certain.
