Your three sea stones dignified and serene sit still on my sill.

They are stationed between the picture of Trent and the one of my mom

by the taps (they're turned off) and the radio (on)

between cat food and coffee and salt and teaspoons

where the sunlight slides in on these cold afternoons.



The night sky is a purple-black skin stretched tight across the universe.

Grab a fistful and pull hard: It unadheres with a soul-shattering, spine-tingling THWOP.

There is a smell like electric dinosaurs in lemonade.

Now you've got the night sky in your grasp. It is cold and it stains your hands a bit.

Suddenly the kitchen window slaps up; Your mother's voice cuts to you:

“Put. That. BACK!”

Your mother has never taken no for an answer.

So you hold onto the night sky for a moment (o what is this taste o what is this smell?)

And then you throw it, pizza-style, overhead.

It adheres to the atmosphere with a hiss.

You just stand and suck night sky juice off your freezing fingers.