“Night’s ink congeals on rice, coating peas/like black sea pebbles glistening in the harrowed/moonlight staring through the shattered kitchen window.”
Santa Ana rattles the eaves, jolting and crashing
branches, edges sharp, scraping bark off the oak trunk
flying straight into the bricks like a suicide
bomber. Eviscerated, the home is smeared and splattered.
Pellets of fur furious shards of left-over chard
burning. Breadsticks thick in tar like molasses soften
and sink into quicksand dragging broken coffee
mugs and cindered white pressed linens. Charred tea
leaves and blasted blankets blow and billow, soot falls
catching for an instant on my lashes before
collecting in fragile piles beneath my eyes
and on my trembling shoulders. Mourning snow.
Curdled mother’s milk ripples barren. Arid cold
fails at ice. Night’s ink congeals on rice, coating peas
like black sea pebbles glistening in the harrowed
moonlight staring through the shattered kitchen window.
Françoise Nieto-Fong is a poet, podcaster, and film producer constantly traveling the world writing in different languages. She has an MFA from Mount Saint Mary’s University in Los Angeles and an undergraduate degree from Cornell University.
