Glass Poetry Press

Volume Six Issue One

Shannon K. Winston

Becoming Dalí

Sometimes, I feel only numbness: my fingers break like ice over thinning violin strings. In Paris, a girl twirls an umbrella on the street corner and watches her reflection in the rain. Midnight train whistles hollow my bones. How did she learn her way in this world? Perhaps moths are really ghosts: they way they ravage wool, tap their wings against glass, feeding on loneliness and rage in the damp. If my head were a bouquet of flowers — an undoing of threads in the desert. If only I were a woman at the window's edge — where a dolphin becomes a bird in my sleep.