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I wish I could see you tonight. The sky is cold and foggy like the bottom of my shower, and I miss you.  You were the prettiest girl I know. Eyes the color of soy milk and midnight hair braided with lucky charms. In a sea of red lips and curvy hips, you were a shooting star. Even your mom said so.  You were her treasure; if she could paint you in gold and display you in the town square she would have. She would pinch your cheeks for color and present you to all the hungry P

Saturday, February 6, 2016 The day had barely begun, and exhaustion had already defeated me. I hadn’t slept more than two hours in a row in weeks. My brain felt disconnected from my body, as if I had to remind myself how to walk, to blink, to breathe. I shuffled into the nursery wearing a nightshirt crusted with dried breast milk and the new slippers Peter gave me for Christmas—open-toe slip-ons with great poufs of pink faux fur that make no damn sense in a Winnipeg winter. 

Give me the moon, I said. Wisp and drip it down between the clouds. Slide it across my back like a mantle of lilied oil. I have never bathed in moonlight. Never eaten fruit made pale by starlight, popped between my teeth by long-fingered lovers, repentant and returned from prodigal lands. Mind those tender sunned-peach hands. For the shadows beneath my breasts are sharp, as dark as the secret crescent of the waxing moon. Drink to me. Feast at the table of my planted feet. Set