At Night, Long Ago
Stella Brice

I’d get stoned in mirrors.
Stoned on the shape of
my own foot.

There was nothing at stake.

I kept my kitchen in a box. My closet—a pink sheet.
My desert boudoir—a vanilla candle.

Every night I’d rummage my
self like a mysterious trunk.

Kissing books with fervor when
I finished them. I pressed my lips like Islam
to the front, the spine, the back.

Anais Nin, Plath, Jack Kerouac.

Return to Archive