I believe in regret. I do not feel
tethered to the sun. The moon, maybe.
Once I was a little star, a tiger stripe
burning bright. Once, I held your hand
and you swallowed mine like a snake
swallows an egg. Breakfast you’d prepare
with a spoonful of hissing butter. French
toast double-dosed with syrup. It was all
powdered sugar for a time. The sky was fixed,
no lighting-like breaks. This was before
your foot splintered the door. Before the bat
fled your hand for the absence in the fence.
Heather Cox edits the online literary magazine Ghost Ocean and the handmade chapbook press Tree Light Books. Heather's work appears or is forthcoming in Barrelhouse, Indiana Review, Threadcount, Nightblock, Pinwheel, and elsewhere. Heather is the recipient of a Luminarts Fellowship and the author of two forthcoming chapbooks, Mole People (BatCat, 2016) and Magnificent Desolation (Finishing Line, 2016). Heather lives in Colorado with her wife and their two dogs and can be found online at looklookhere.tumblr.com.