Sometimes She Wakes To War by Michael H. Brownstein
SOMETIMES SHE WAKES TO WAR Sometimes she wakes to war thinking flares of thunder, echoes of lightning, a grand thunderstorm rattling her windows, a hurricane, wind swept and damp with sand violent like the breaking of oyster shells under foot. Then she remembers who she is. Sometimes her hair becomes a nest of mosquitoes and fluid from her eyes semen, her lips exactly right and she is always imperfectly beautiful. When her eyes are green, she rubs her left earlobe and when they are brown, she curls her hands in her lap. Sometimes the battle goes on for more than a week. Other times it ends as quickly as a jet flying overhead. She learns how to eat weeds and sauerkraut, soup from edible leaves hanging on trees. Thunder rolls in thick bolts of light, hurricanes fling glass and bits of bark, earthquakes go on and on, sidewalks and street slow motion partners in dance. Sometimes she sits up in bed, pauses before thinking and remembers why she i...