Yet loss keeps thudding past my house, telling me I'm not done.
—from "Wintering," by Sandra Lim
I grow exhausted of the faint lights in the mirror. I put my makeup on in the morning and my face is scattered with sprites, glowing zits. One gets stuck to my lipstick like a piece of down. But the angels are not finished with me. The Chariot's wheels sliced my life in half. From the wound spilled a dead horse and two torn wings. From the wound spilled my mouth opening wider each day. I choked on everything like it was seawater, or stomach acid. My bile filled with light. The angels pin the wound together with quills, but still shadow seeps from between the sutures.