Mama, your daughter is dripping down the side of the world, dissipating slowly. I thought you should know.
At night I hear the police helicopter circling like a fat buzzard, contemplating if it will kill- perhaps, not kill. It hums as it picks the city clean while I am a sieve, howling hungry. I gape and gape and run right through the days, thinking: to kill or not to kill. I thought you should know.
Tuesday rolled into Wednesday and I was caught somewhere between, slipping through myself. I dreamt of orchards: tart citrus splitting my tongue and bees working themselves through my hair. Grandpa was there, asking after Grandma, his shirt, crisp from the iron, eclipsing the fruits. He was no more reachable than the summers he spent under the verandah, his shirt, crisp from the iron, safe from the sun. I was eight, treading water, and from the edges: bursting oleander. You were coming to pick me up, Mama. When I dried off, my legs read: MEAN MEAN! MEAN and I was balled on the couch, busy being a sieve.
I was back at home, Mama, rotating psychosis. It was late afternoon on a Thursday, the helicopter pesting. I thought you should know.
Rhiannon Thorne's work has appeared or is forthcoming most recently in Foundling Review, Sugared Water, Words Dance, and Cider Press Review. She edits the online publication cahoodaloodaling and may be reached at rhiannonthorne.com.