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#078: where the food is (an acrostic)
Frozen no more, but chilled to perfection Remnants of Tuesday’s feast lay idle in tupperware I open and close, procrastinate, open and close Doors filled with condiments and plant milk Glass shelves stained by loose coriander and limes Every so often spring onions winter from a fickle thermostat.
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#077: it’s hot (cinquain practice)

not now! forearm hot skin shouted up to the sun their fried antennas signalling for clouds
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#076: heavy
today when gravity called their kin down to the cooling soil all my limbs answered at once
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#074: stitching knowledge back to health (a nonet)

She tightened their inanimate spines the chiropractor of aged books de-threaded by keen readers enraptured by story mending carefully she remembered when wise trees were mere leaves