Itās been eighteen, nineteen years. I triangulate my way around unnamed streets and pass by the noodle shop, a police box, a blue bottle. A music box recording of āMy Favorite Thingsā is directing me to avoid some tracks. My place is on the 3rd floor. All of the neighbors are silent, just like always. I nose my way in through the window, careful not to disturb. A cast-off coat, a pillow, an awl, no sweets for me. The kitchen window has been bricked up, so you may not notice my thoughts getting darker and darker. I go all the way in and through. Out on the balcony I lower myself gingerly into the smallest of flowerpots. I can hear the warning, the cadence of cracking sticks.
Valerie Fox has published writing (flash, poetry) inĀ The Cafe Irreal, Across the Margin, Juked, Cleaver, Literary Orphans, Hanging Loose,Ā and other journals. Recently she has published two short books:Ā InsomniaticĀ (PS Books) andĀ The Real SkyĀ (Bent Window Books). Much interested in collaboration, she has published stories and poems written with Arlene Ang inĀ Apiary, Okay Donkey, Cordite, New World WritingĀ and other journals.