I dream of her, 
childish and illogical,
straight hair and tiger-eyes.
Enveloped in wonder and reverberations
of her deflections, I long to syphon comfort
and confidence from her lips, but she chides me away. 
I try to delay the bruises, but that chilled-heart knows no bounds.
Against my eye the icepack melts. I fondle the wound around my neck.
My hopeless little bitch companion, always trying to sink our own only life vessel.

Jamie Haddox vehemently believes that a little mud isn't as bad as a bloated politician, a rash you can't hide, a tooth headache, or unrequited love… better to get a little dirty. She is unsure, when it comes to cranes and herons, what law velcros one or unhinges the other. 100 percent of the time, she will choose a leftover hibachi scallop over beans from the garden.