Glossy Elle pages,
Voguely pinned above your bed
in a crown,
kitchen sink filled with red roses
and a white Styrofoam leg.

The watery up and down of your
handwriting, like
rising steam or
Matrix computer language
drenches me with the nostalgic
anxiety
of yearbooks.

Were you her?
Was I me?
Is Brent Ludwig dead?

This must be what you
were doing when you
went to bed early,

learning how to sew
all gold and green and red
like stitches holding a heart together,
and drawing such perfect
shoes.

When did the Easter Bunnies come?
Are they angry?

I want to see the angels' faces.
I fear for them
in this world of birds and
vicious apples.

The Braille doesn't tell
me what you are thinking.

The Rooster is silent.

That flock of birds who flew
through my notes, in the
hallway 20 years ago —
They have a secret.

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Lisa lives in Colorado and hopes to buy a pick-up truck with her tax return. Her work has been published in Matter Literary Journal, the Rocky Mountain Chronicle and the Colorado Daily. She is excited about moose-viewing season.