Jade
by Lauren Davis
I put myself away behind the glass which will not break.
I have been fasting. I have been making myself a leaf with wings.
I want to be a good wife. I want to be left alone to read. I think
my time is limited, but all I do is look for dresses, usually
in jade-green. I walked by the glass and saw my mother.
Wildfire smoke distant, but still the sun is an angry thing.
Which I wanted every night to paint. I have no paints.
I have forgotten how to properly breathe. I own a book about it,
have not opened it. Many gifts are left on my doorstep.
They catch fire if I look away. When I look back, they’re undamaged.
It’s an odd prank they play. My mother leafs through my letters.
My fingers are helping her, but getting in the way.
My lungs are a doorway. I’ll eat my own tongue if you stay.
I have been fasting. I have been making myself a leaf with wings.
I want to be a good wife. I want to be left alone to read. I think
my time is limited, but all I do is look for dresses, usually
in jade-green. I walked by the glass and saw my mother.
Wildfire smoke distant, but still the sun is an angry thing.
Which I wanted every night to paint. I have no paints.
I have forgotten how to properly breathe. I own a book about it,
have not opened it. Many gifts are left on my doorstep.
They catch fire if I look away. When I look back, they’re undamaged.
It’s an odd prank they play. My mother leafs through my letters.
My fingers are helping her, but getting in the way.
My lungs are a doorway. I’ll eat my own tongue if you stay.
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Lauren Davis is the author of The Milk of Dead Mothers (YesYes Books, forthcoming), Home Beneath the Church (Fernwood Press), and When I Drowned (Kelsay Books). She holds an MFA from the Bennington College Writing Seminars. Davis is the winner of the Landing Zone Magazine’s Flash Fiction Contest.
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