Slats, like that. Sunlight and shade on a thigh striped. Sight an orb, sphere glow at her back through the blinds’ spaces. Beside, alongside of, parallel perhaps. What is this room, this place and another, overlap. Dream her grandmother, twist the rod, let in more light or less. A sickroom angel keeps watch through crevices cranked open by fever; a cold spot, a shiver. Are we inside the zoetrope, static, or outside, peering through thin slits?
Note on the Collaboration
This poem is from a series of ongoing Facebook poems. The basics are I post a prompt, FB friends post their immediate responses, and 24 hours later, I take the responses and turn them into a first draft of a poem. Sometimes I keep the posts’ wording, sometimes I use the ideas presented but not the actual words. It has been a lot of fun, and the sense of community when I write these drafts is wonderful.