We’re silhouettes on a mudflap - flashing go go girls on neon signs - naked daughters of Eve. The bible proclaims Eve was made from Adam’s rib, the curved slender bone that protects his heart, blames Eve because she talked with the snake and ate the apple. We know Eve’s shame - not that we’ve read the bible, heathen queens of the night that we are. We’ve talked to snakes - we’ve listened to them too. These conversations had nothing to do with fruit. * Every morning, we wa

In the club, everyone’s mouths open at the same time. The bass drops and words fall out — slick, unclaimed — pooling around my boots. Someone says beautiful mama, and the phrase sticks to my skin, glowing faintly, northern, like a bruise that refuses to thaw. I press my palm to my stomach, a reflex I don’t notice until I’ve already done it. Inside me, the baby shifts, slow and buoyant, the way something swims when it isn’t afraid. My body feels anchored, weighted correctly. A

Obscure, Iridescent My love is a multicoloured, sparkly thing, resides upon tree, below butterfly’s underwing; concealed in the pattern of starling and sparrow flight, serene through the ages, revealed when the moment right. It’s there on the breeze, with each first flake of winter snow, approaches and leaves as it pleases (thinks no one knows), freewheels through the ether, forms various cloud constructs, expands under surface, still trickles down mountain bluff, cascades ro

I saw a moth resting on the garage window, no doubt tired of the brutal summer day. For no intelligent reason I nudged her, poke and poke until she flew for me. Though not a butterfly, she danced like the best of them and if she was tired then what a beauty it is to be tired. She had a splendid garden to land on, but she chose the ugliest tree. A camouflaged lizard attacked and ate the dear moth right before me. And so I make this note: please future me, let moths be. Armando