There is a stain of black paint on the beonica flower wallpaper.

It looks as though it began with a trickle, 

And languidly traveled downwards


She awakes suddenly during the night 

And her ears echo with sounds of the opera

She was just wearing her mink fur shawl

With champagne 

All the ladies gracefully laugh

Their dainty hands wrapped in velvet 

French linguistics

Have you been to Paris before?


Now sweat sticks to her legs 

As she lies on top of white sheets

The window is open, and the leaves are whistling 

Preternatural owl in the window

Turns its head to the side

Mourning dove in the evening 


Her flowered wallpaper reflects at her 

Vogue 1953

Perhaps she shall not wear the dress with the peonies on it tomorrow

Nobody wears peonies anymore anyway.


When she closes her eyes again

She sees little specks of color under her eyelids 

Confetti in her retinas


Girls giggle in class

They pass notes written with their pretty ink pens

Their hair in curls

Poised collar

Knitted sweater


All the girls wear tight-wasted coats

He requested one for Christmas


The window is closed now

No mourning dove

But wilted peonies in a vase

Ophelia is gasping for air as she becomes submerged in the river

There is a stain of black paint on the beonica flower wallpaper. 


Despite herself

Multiple selves

Along with one and two 


She has packed her bags 

Is all ready

Luggage in hand

And she turns to face the mirror to peer at the person calling back to her 


She looks unfamiliar

but the other insists that they know one another.


Perhaps they have met once before?

It’s on the tip of her tongue.

Unfortunately, she is no good with names,

Forgive her bad memory.