VanilleNoire

Sometimes I imagine That when Debussy penned this movement, He hesitated with the title. "Clair de Lune"…moonlight. Perhaps he didn't have the courage To add an "E" to the end of her name, Immortalizing her in music. The gentle chords pouring From his piano describing The peace with which she slept. "Claire of the Moon." She was the embodiment of dreams. Indeed, with her hair spread out In messy ringlets across the pillow, The pale, spring-time glow Of the moon hanging heavy In the April sky Gently casting its cool light Through the half-open window, Onto her faintly blushing cheek. She looked ethereal, Like a

i. she talks through her wrinkles, 'i have no desire for food', she says. i take her plate to the kitchen noticing how the beetroot shavings bled into the skin of the chicken and brown rice. it was blood, skin, and bone, and the rice was a million starlike cells floating between. this reminds me of my anatomy textbook: we've been learning what's beneath our skin, we learned that all cells divide. some cells often don't stop dividing. other cells divide and stop when they should... but not my grandmother's. starlike, they explode, they shatter, they consume they divide. ii. i want to be mad at my grandmother's cells, but what would that do? i

I left lithe lilies on your porch step, petals open, smooth with the sun's caress. You left me frost flowers. icy stems cracking with the slightest touch. 'But they are beautiful,' you pleaded as I poured water onto them, melting their wintry exterior. 'They are, but I despise winter because you always leave me icebound.'