I.

I am working nights/swimming inside my skin.

I am more aware of the arches of my feet and my sodium intake than ever before.

I stroke my eyelids, feeling round little melons underneath.

II.

Four circles of colored paper on the angled wall of an attic bedroom: green blue blue orange.

Happy Birthday, Kathryn, Dear.

III.

Imagine telling yourself that you

Imagine that you knew 

Imagine that you knew

Imagine that you knew

IV.

A woman knows she will die soon.  She watches saline solution drip into her veins.

At her burial, I will take a eucalyptus leaf from the bouquet atop her coffin.

In the car, I will slice the leaf open with my thumbnail and rub the juices into her photograph.

I will believe that she smells eucalyptus then.

V.

My mother has a cloth advent calendar.  Each day has a metal indent, like on a raincoat, and we snap a little stuffed star into each day until Christmas comes.

On the black table is a eucalyptus wreath, white and purple candles.

VI.

She gave me a purple shirt, purple fleece I don't remember if I gave it away when I was packing shit, a watch that never worked, money for my graduation, a green 

I have a thank you card with her name on it.