Brut Writing

I drink from a tin can colored gold, decorated with green ferns and floating navy blue rimmed bubbles. In the interim between normalcy and the headache, I find my words more easily.

I float in the pool leaning on a blue bed of air, reading someone else’s stories and drinking a half bottle of brut from this can, and in between the reading comes the thinking, the good kind.

I watch my skin turn an angry pink in spite of the slathered-on sunscreen, and I dip my elbows in the water, keeping the book spine above the wet surface line. I think, I should get out of here and let my fingers…