Her voice is a helix,
a ragged sugarcane scream,
that spirals from the dark diaphragm
of her grief.
Doubt is the dirt
in which the whiskey lily grows.
"Yes" is another shot,
another quick flip of the wrist,
smooth as a Fender's maple neck.
"Later" is something
she never considers at all.
For Shawna's Monday Melting Pot.
Also submitted to Real Toads.