Sarah always wants to talk about frog ankles. How she escaped there after the moon leaked her out, arms over toes, on the hill-top. How, after that, she scrambled to the nearest cave and lived there for twenty days, breathing seven minutes too late, just to be sure. The way she needed to unswallow the ankle thrice to bend it completely. How she gutted a fish with her eyes, because the stones wouldn't let go of her hands, force it to lay its eggs inside her throat to sooth it. The way she gathered flowers to trick the deck of cards, or the pale horse that pressed its legs on the nest full of broken eggshells.

Every morning, I watch her leave her house, pockets full of artichoke and three different names bound to a knife, searching the edges of the ocean for something. I hope to god she finds it.

is a personal tangible. Often the cage refuses to sing, even when I tug at its railings. Wind is implicit to a mirror, so are gravediggers. As I walk towards it, it yelps and murmurs the word 'crescent' thrice. As if it is a future to be dealt with a raw white bend of a spoon. I continue walking towards it, till it disappears inside the shadow of my left toe. It is the strand of hair though, cut off by a piece of glass keepsake that lifts the dead planets from my fists. I know it is the time to start playing my sleep backwards, till it begins to mimic the inside of my gloves.