The sun is an eye in the sky through the white
haze outside. Mailman wears a yellow rainjacket.
My tiny little head in the big computer chair.
You were a sweet demon in bed this morning, then
read a whole book in your three hour cramp bath,
made sticky rice with angry panda spring rolls.
A sensualist and an essentialist,
good together like chips and Coke.
The sun was out but you were sad and cried
about the Ladysmith garden, couldn't see
the light at the end of the tunnel.
You washed the floor and walls for Easter,
thought it was Tuesday. Then your eyes went
blurry and it was fresh, pink blood.
2011
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