It's Still Life

She never sleeps on her back. Her wings, you know, her wings.

Curves in a Sparrow’s Voice

Bedlam’s silencing her sawtooth edges, her bark and howl, but it can’t bend curves into a sparrow’s voice that’s cracked and shattered like bird seed. Listen to the wind against the windows, rattling like loose teeth. Wind blowing trumpets. Wind with no eternal rest. No rest for this woman, delusional, they say. She likes sex – with women. Bedlam under the bedsheets, say they. At night she moans like a cow screaming across the arroyo. Crazed, they say, so she waits in Bedlam for a small white house with hot dusty air. Watches from rattling windows at white crosses on the ground. They topple over in the wind like paper boats on a river. Her heart is a paper boat – afloat. She longs for her sparrow’s carved voice, and those thighs. She longs for the woman she loves. She’s crazed – they say.

©️ Misky 2019. This recalls Bedlam Hospital in London during the Victorian age. dVerse Prosery #7 Flash fiction 144 words or less including a line from “Dead Man’s Float”, poem entitled “Cow”, by Jim Harrison – “A cow is screaming across the arroyo.”