first non-private August justwrite

People are not pictures of trees on your windowsill. I water my potted plants on Tuesdays because schedules are natural to me--tides, revolutions, lunar cycles, all of them circles I slip onto my fingers like promise rings, turning my skin green then swollen red. I chew on my arm like a wounded dog, but to you I look like a hen preening, my feathers dusted with earth, a girl turning to her grandfather and asking whether or not I have a tongue. I have at least four limbs, carved with initials and worn smooth by bare feet. I have a beak that was sharp once. When the moon comes again, I will have a thought that becomes a dream. The next morning, I'll call you and tell you because some things are significant until they're given words or placed beneath glass and framed. On my windowsill, I have my fifth grade rock collection, a funeral announcement, and four forgotten photographs framed and upside down. Outside, there are trees leaning in, straining to hear my secrets I whisper from behind these panes. I think I see you in their bark, your initials at least. There is a knife in the grass, dew resting on its blade. Nearby, a spider plucks a lullaby from her web. I try to catch it with both hands; I want to frame it for tomorrow. But in the morning, my hands, the yard, and these webs are empty. You're standing in the doorway to my bedroom. I think I'm saying your name, but the walls are leaning in close and their faces are blank.