Dear Kazim,
Can we call this a loose number? If we derive from digestion and blood vessels, can you carve me an ore out of your ink’d teeth. I need to paddle now. Even in reservoir with blow-up kayak (dirty and illegal), I need to feel wave beneath my bones and chase the swirl of fish beside my gentle stroke of movement. I have relapsed off red lipstick and hidden knees that I know, I know, are far more pulchritudinous than even the moon: my lover of three decades. Kazim, I am unraveled. Can you write me a prescription for a good hem. Things grow slowly on me and when you remind me of peace within bites of communal gatherings, I still want to ask you to footnote that. Did something happen? The thing is, my wrists are hungry and yesterday’s morning was extracted from loose sky exhaling water’s crumbs and stirred chocolate and coffee and everyone is calling themselves a writer now. How about I just label myself as syllables.
Aimee Herman 