dragonfly

by maw shein win

the national geographic with a photograph of an iranian woman in a ruby dress. the mountain i didn't climb. grilled cheese sandwiches fried in oil. the loop of the swallow. the sun on my black hair as i walk up the hill out of breath, cursing. binoculars on the table. the stuffed terrier in the basket, no eyes. the empty organic red wine bottle from last night under a fit of stars. the conversation with my housemates about failed mormons and forgiveness and poets in nicaragua. sound of construction. fragments of cloud. the cigarette i want to smoke. the wooden box full of straw hats in the corner. panic. a white butterfly circling a dead tomato plant on the balcony. two cardboard coasters that say berg-brauerei-zellerfeld. the money tree shifting slightly to the left. the cable car, crammed with tourists, climbing up to the peak. my dry legs. the desire to swim. my mother administering anesthesia to a patient in a hospital somewhere in apple valley. two cats: fred and ginger. the damned laptop. a ten pointed crystal hanging on wire sending fissures of light across my arms.

the dragonfly knocking against the glass.

(Originally published in Monday Night, Issue 2)