<\/p>\n

After He Calls Me A Low-Hanging Fruit<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

I have a dream in<\/p>\n

which I am staring<\/p>\n

at the dead branches<\/p>\n

of a black tree, bold<\/p>\n

against blue sky.<\/p>\n

On the highest branch<\/p>\n

stands a girl in a red<\/p>\n

school uniform.<\/p>\n

I am mesmerized<\/p>\n

by the intensity<\/p>\n

of color, so I can\u2019t<\/p>\n

be sure whether she<\/p>\n

jumps or falls, but her<\/p>\n

impact shakes me.<\/p>\n

The red of her<\/p>\n

uniform, the red of her<\/p>\n

blood, of her insides\u2014<\/p>\n

that heap of red against<\/p>\n

the grass looks,<\/p>\n

to me, like apples.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Blackout<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Blackout is the tear in your dress. It is flashing<\/p>\n

red and blue, the officer guiding you<\/p>\n

to the curb. Blackout is your car crumpled,<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

a broken fist. It is lost time between<\/p>\n

the bar and this intersection, this crossroads,<\/p>\n

if you will. And you will\u2014you must\u2014because all signs<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

indicate your luck is spent. Blackout is knowing<\/p>\n

in your muscles what has happened, but not knowing\u00a0<\/p>\n

how or when or with whom. Blackout is falling<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

into his bed, but before his hands are on you,<\/p>\n

you have faded away. Blackout is nodding,<\/p>\n

Yes, I remember<\/em>, but this is a puzzle<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

missing pieces; the absences nag like the edge<\/p>\n

of a chipped tooth or sharp prongs of an empty<\/p>\n

setting that used to grasp a gem. It\u2019s forgetting<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

where you left your shoes. It\u2019s shame gagging you, fingers<\/p>\n

prying you open. It eats you up, then spits<\/p>\n

invectives. Blackout is for girls like you<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

who can be tossed like rag dolls, rearranged.<\/p>\n

You won\u2019t complain, won\u2019t say a word to stop it.<\/p>\n

You\u2019re so far gone, you barely feel a thing.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I have a dream in
\nwhich I am staring
\nat the dead branches . . .<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":7,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-4585","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4585","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/7"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=4585"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4585\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":4741,"href":"https:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4585\/revisions\/4741"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=4585"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=4585"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=4585"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}