BY HEATHER SELLERS
I woke with a dream of many flamingoes, flying low, landing en masse, all walking now
gently towards my house.
I went to Publix for noodles and Dawn.
I stopped at Fatima’s Alterations to pick up the tunic whose sleeve I tore, raising my arm
quickly and urgently in the city.
I looked away from the manatee in the bayou, on its back in the toxic water, whiskers
wavering as in mood song, breathing.
A young umbrella tree grew from the gutter over the back door, just out of my reach on the old ladder.
From the driveway, I watched the black felt sky turn to obsidian, as evening and storm
came together quickly, outlining my loneliness.
That’s when I noticed the I caladiums planted just last week, slender black fingernails
pierced from the dirt, shining in the rain, curling come, this way, this way.