Art By Johanna Povirk-Znoy



The dream you had may not touch the nerve of everyone. Mary dreamed Jesus and he was. Jesus came to Earth knowing he would die from Earth. We like to pretend we are always here on Earth. I smoke, knowingly. I don’t smoke anymore. When I use “I” I am lying. Always, I liked it lying down. There is so much less to do when someone does it for you.

I will cry when you say something real. The problem with people is that they make you misunderstand yourself. And while misunderstanding myself, I am terrified of dark forests. A stranger walks up to the door. In old folklore, bad spirits and horny men are kept from the girls with chalices of magic shit and garlic. But I know of women who bathe in the blood of men.

A leaf drags itself across the concrete. I’ve carved out a day for my sick mind. Everything eventually passes over, including the passing. How do you qualify your strengths? I always remind people of what I don’t do well: swim, breathe (when I’m scared). Am I scared often? Small houses made of plastic siding pop up and stick around. I see their blue TVs through their windows. I look at our plates of eggs and wonder who will be doing the dying.

Pretend you are me. Would you cry about this? In my head I cross the train tracks over and over, and my mother is there always stopping the car. I say Mom stop it I mean go. The problem with my mother is that I am hers. The candles turn on without a flame.

It’s one of those days I’m allowing the headache. If I just laugh at all this. Each time I put your clothes away it’s in a different place. My clothes disappear in the corner of my eye. I can’t fill out the survey because nothing is stationary. Remember when the storm just broke the window. And weirdly nobody saw. I start the letter with handwriting not my own.

Colors and textures begin to obsess me. I sweat over what matches to distract from the real problem. The problem of powerlines blocking our view of the small houses. The problem of not needing to be told things and knowing. The problem of cutting tomatoes on a wooden chopping block. I change the way I walk because I am no longer carrying you. I change the way I speak into the mirror. I change our beige sheets to black and spill completely open.