Two Girls on a Night Breeze Madison Vaillant

she would glimpse under half lidded eyes head resting on the car door Arriving in the cradle of sleeping giants, called bluffs That thick haze of wet earth fills her nose

Permeating every year of life Every night with the window open, a single light on yellow pages Replace a room with a matchbox dorm A sister with a roommate

Until her legs grow longer Her hair blankets her lower back

Her face sharpens, as does her words

And the years layer on, like the blankets that ripple like velvet waves under string light stars, that reveal bigger hands touching the same pages, as she welcomes in the same night breeze An old friend

This is not childhood anymore, but somehow it feels

the exact same

A Friendly Companion / Alexia Walz

I have a monster in my life. He’s of the wideset, furry, cobalt blue with horns breed. And he’s not the kind that hides under your bed! He’s actually quite friendly. We’ve developed a good rapport lately. The downside is that he’s been tasked with the burial of my temporary grave every month. Years ago, we made an agreement that around the time that my body reminds me of my womanhood (and my childlessness), my grave must be dug. The reason why? I’m not sure. But he insisted, so he goes to an unnamed location, somewhere on the outskirts of my consciousness and he starts to dig. With each dent in the dirt that he makes, I sink deeper and deeper into a haze. Into a mind that I cannot call my own. Once he is done digging, he pulls me into this hole, and I sit there for a while. I sit there as all the assignments, scheduled shifts and pre-planned dates with friends cry and beg for my attention. But I am unable to move, unable to complete the tasks that will deem me as a productive, healthy and living citizen because I am preoccupied with my death. My temporary death at the hands of a hairy, blue and horned creature. But I know he means well. He’s just doing his job. And when it’s time for me to stop my wallowing, he pulls me out. He helps me reclaim my mind and my life. And then we laugh and make jokes and forget that I sank into a deep, dark coma for a couple weeks. We live on until he grabs his shovel and starts to dig. One. More. Time.