Then one day she noticed the forest had begun to bleed into her waking life.
There were curved metal plates on the trees to see around corners.
She thought to brush her hand against his thigh.
She thought to trace the seam of his jeans with her thumbnail.
The supersaturated blues were beginning to pixillate around the edges, to
become a kind of grammar.
She placed a saucer of water under her lamp and counted mosquitoes as
Soot amassed in drifts in the corners of the room.
She pressed her thumb into the hollow of his throat for a while and then
let him go.
Monica Youn, “Ignatz Domesticus” from Ignatz. Copyright © 2010 by Monica Youn. Reprinted by permission of Four Way Books.
(Four Way Books, 2010)