Francine knows the shadow is slow to wake.
I understand the man inside me like a light. I wait hiding under a stone, she writes. He’s afraid of my face.
At night, Francine opens her chest and plant words there, or flowers, if the feelings right.
When the real one comes I will let him see my bones. But only in my dreams, she writes, for that is when we undress.
Francine knows the shadow of her man lives inside her as a creek. Slow to wake. But when he does, she writes, the stones will open their stem-eyes and grow.
Francine knows the power of how to wait.
I will let him see my bones.