winter solstice

build your own miracle. start with nothing. no, never start with nothing. remember, now. you cannot beg the sunlight glowing through the pampas grass and streaking gold rhythms across the tar patches on the freeway for mercy. you cannot ask the apple tree to bring back seasons you've missed, not when it's gilded itself in the sunset on the second longest day of the year. build your own. you cannot kneel in the kitchen, under the countertop or on the pillows in the bedroom next to the window and watch the street, waiting for a miracle to come to you.

bell jar and dog skull, seal scapulae and old glasses frames. succulent in a brandy glass. bison shaped figurine. hair of a dear friend, ticket bought on a holy day, shot of the good booze, feather, ring of someone who has long been dead. we lit all the candles and let the biggest one burn all night.

in the morning, angel takes me to the bookstores. three of them. we buy fancy periodicals, flip through books published in the 40s about so-called primitive art, drink espressos. the man behind the counter says, the count of monte cristo is a...long book. he says they pronounce garbage 'gahr-bazje.' the walls of angel's room are mostly robin's egg blue. the wagon blanket on her bed has the image of a bear skin strewn with roses on it. her windows overlook grey sky, twenty chickens, water pump, mud.

i spent the longest night of the year alone. i don't remember my dreams.