Cory Street

Kimberly Sample

Standing on the cobble steps of her grandmother’s apartment building, Cory blankly stares up at the towering bricks. The chilly New York air prickles her cheeks and fills her lungs as she takes a deep breath. She steps through the orange and red leaves of autumn, reaching the front entrance and walking up the creaky stairs.

Time is so funny, isn’t it? she thinks.

15 years since she saw her grandmother in person.

12 days since she got the call.

3 days since the funeral.

2 hours since she found out she inherited this apartment.

44B. Apartment 44B, she repeats; the small, yellow lights flicker as the wooden floor creaks under Cory’s feet. Side tables with 

dried flowers in vases perfectly line the hallway doors to each apartment. Cozy.

Cory finally reaches her grandmother’s apartment, wiggling the key relentlessly until she hears a click. The splintered brown door squeaks open to a dark room illuminated only by the golden glow of the setting sun. She breathes in the dusty air mixed with her grandmother’s unmistakable perfume, immediately yanked back to her childhood.

It looks the same.

She flicks on the light switch, plants breathing life into the otherwise dead room. Clocks, mirrors, and art paint the walls; crystals glisten in the bulb light next to ashes of burnt sage and incense. Piles of tiny figurines, decorative teacups, and other knickknacks clutter every inch of shelf space. The small statue of a fairy in a pale blue dress sits on top of a crystal sphere; Cory makes a note to take it home with her. She glances at the dining room table covered with paints, brushes, and pieces her grandmother had been working on. They never used the table to eat when she was younger. Matter of fact, Cory and her grandmother often sat on the couch or the floor while eating. The table was reserved for art.

Notebooks, sketchbooks, and novels litter the ground. She remembers when she was a kid and would slide on magazines across the slippery wooden floor. Her grandmother always said she was going to crack her head open, but Cory never listened. She glances at the colorful shawls and sweaters draped on the back of the couch. A wardrobe without color is a life without love, Cory says, repeating her grandmother’s words. The world seemed brighter when they were together.

She turns to see dusty childhood photographs sitting on the kitchen windowsill -- pictures of the two of them together, laughing with frosting on their faces. Cory when she was two and had a beard made of bubble bath. Cory in her little cap and gown for kindergarten graduation. Her grandmother never ended up making it to her real graduation, residing on the other side of the country. She finds a picture of her mother next to her grandmother, smiling bigger than she’s ever seen. The memories feel like a lifetime ago.

Then, Cory notices something that she’s never seen before: a crimson chest with a tarnished gold trim and lock hiding in the corner of the living room under a pile of papers. How could I have never noticed this huge chest? I could fit inside this if I really wanted to. Cory uses all her strength to drag the trunk away from the wall, the papers sliding off. Quickly she realizes it’s locked. She wanders around opening drawers, moving knickknacks, and lifting rugs. If I were a key to a creepy random chest, where would I be? Defeated, she lays down on the cold floor, breathing out an annoyed sigh. She rolls her head to the left, catching sight of a shiny glimmer underneath the wooden coffee table she’s next to. “Of course,” she says, grabbing the key out from under the table. She sits up, eagerly opening the chest, hoping to find something extraordinary, but it was only shallowly filled with more art supplies. Random pencils, sketchbooks, and cheap paints make up a thin layer along the bottom. Why is this locked if it’s just a bunch of art stuff? And why is it so heavy? She pulls out some of her grandmother’s old sketches from the trunk, amazed at her work. Her grandmother always had a flair for the arts, creating some of the most realistic and beautiful pieces of work.

⁎⁎⁎

Sitting at the kitchen table, Cory holds up one of her grandmother’s pieces from the chest. It’s a pencil drawing of the vintage clock hanging on the wall across from her, it being so realistic it could almost be mistaken for a picture.

“Here goes nothing,” Cory says, ripping out a piece of paper from a sketchbook she found sitting in the chest. She learned a gaggle of tricks from her grandmother when she was younger and got pretty good at drawing. When she moved away, she lost all motivation to continue. It didn’t help that her mom always told Cory that art was a waste of time and she should focus on school. That’s where Cory’s mom and grandmother always clashed.

Nonetheless, she picks up her pencil and begins drawing a rose, her grandmother’s favorite flower. It’s a rough sketch; nonetheless, it shows that Cory still has some of her artistic abilities. Once she finishes the drawing, she holds it up, admiring her work in the quiet comfort of the kitchen.

Suddenly, she hears a strange whirring noise coming from the corner of the living room. Cory looks around confused as the buzzing grows louder and louder. Then she launches out of her seat, ready to bolt out the door. The sound finally stops with a loud thunk of the trunk lid closing. Trembling, Cory slowly walks toward the corner of the room where the trunk is sitting. If I were in a horror movie, this would be the moment I die. Her shaky hand reaches toward the chest’s handle, opening it at a painfully slow pace. With wide eyes and a cautious stance, she peers into the darkness. 

“What the fuck!” Cory exclaims, slamming the lid shut and running to the other side of the room. Her heart races as her chest rises rapidly. “Okay, okay, okay, I’m just imagining things. It’s justthe grief talking. Or the jet lag from flying from California. Maybe I’m dreaming. I need to wake up,” Cory rambles to herself in between breaths.

Once she calms down enough to contain her thoughts, she creeps back over to the chest. Opening the lid once more, sure enough, it’s still there, laying on top of the art supplies.

How?

Reaching her hand into the chest, she lifts a white rose, identical to the one she just drew. The flower vibrates in her trembling hand as she stares at it in astonishment.

Then, she gets an idea. She grabs a pack of colored pencils from the bottom of the trunk and rushes back over to the art table, nearly tipping over her chair as she sits down. Cory rips out another piece of paper, quickly drawing another rose, this time coloring the petals red. Sure enough, she hears a loud whirring sound until the trunk lid slams shut. Inside the trunk lies another rose, this time with red petals.

Her vision clouds with tears of confusion, and her heart beats so loud she can’t hear anything else. Cory rushes to a window, throwing it open and sticking half her body out of the building. She breathes in the nighttime air, feeling the cool breeze brush against her flushed cheeks. I need to get a grip.

⁎⁎⁎

The next morning, Cory enters the now bright and sunny living room with tired eyes. She glances over in the corner of the living room on her way to the kitchen, making sure the chest is still there. She had covered it up with an old quilt last night in the hopes it would conceal whatever magic it was holding while she slept.

Unable to continue ignoring her curiosity, Cory sits back at the kitchen table, grabbing a pencil and sketchbook from the floor. She had put the book and pencils back in the trunk where they came from last night. The last thing she needed was some angry magic pencils and paper to attack her in the middle of the night because she didn’t lock them up. That’s another thing her grandmother taught her. Always respect the energy of things around you.

On this new notepad, she begins to draw an apple, beautifully ripe red and glistening. Cory waits for the whirring to sound, but after five minutes, there still isn’t a single sound in the apartment. She walks over to the chest to see if she can see something has changed, but it looks the same as last night. Maybe it was all just some weird dream last night.

⁎⁎⁎

Later that night, Cory opens the chest once again and pulls out a notepad and colored pencils. She draws the apple once more, hoping she can figure out why the magic didn’t work this morning. Half believing that she just had a messed up, grief-driven dream the previous night, she’s slightly surprised when she hears the whirring and thud of the chest closing. Sure enough, when she opens the lid, there sits a perfectly ripe apple amongst the art supplies. Cory picks it up, hesitant to take a bite, but her curiosity overpowers her logic. The crisp crunch echoes in her head as she bites into the sweet juicy fruit.

Aside from learning that she can draw edible objects, Cory also discovers that it’s only the materials in the red chest that are magic.

Okay. I have to be careful about what materials I’m using. The last thing I need is a spider or something crawling out of that chest and coming for me. Hardback spiral sketchbooks are magic,soft cover sketchbooks are normal.

For the rest of the night, Cory tests the limits of the chest’s abilities. She starts off by drawing her childhood teddy bear to see if it would smell the same as she remembers. She pulls out the matted brown bear, feeling hugged by its familiar scent. Then, she draws a burning candle to see if she can make fire. Cory opens the trunk to find a vanilla candle with its wick engulfed in flames. The true test is when she draws a butterfly to see if she can create life. She can. The monarch circles her head rapidly, aggressively slamming its wings into her face until she shoos it out the window. Cory draws relentlessly, falling into a dreamless sleep at the table.

⁎⁎⁎

Cory wakes up abruptly the next morning to the sound banging on the apartment door, making it shake on its hinges. She sits up in her chair, hair tangled, and a piece of paper stuck to her cheek. She looks around the room in awe of what she was able to manifest last night. Clothes, money, figurines, bugs, the list goes on. While Cory thought she should feel powerful because of this magic, she couldn’t help but feel lost. Should she tell anyone what she’s discovered? Should she try to push the limits even more by drawing something more complex? Is she even deserving of such a gift?

The banging continues, and she wonders who on Earth it could be. She looks through the peep hole and sees an older woman with wiry grey hair, large purple glasses, and an olive-green shawl.

“Rose!” the woman shouts on the other side of the door. “I know you’re in there! I heard the buzzing last night! You know you’re not supposed to be drawing alone!” The woman continues knocking. “Roslyn Campbell do not make me break down this door!”

Cory debates what to do but ultimately decides to open the door.

“Oh! You’re not Rose,” the woman says.

“No, I’m not,” Cory chuckles awkwardly. “I’m her granddaughter.”

“Cordelia? That granddaughter?” 

“Just Cory, please,” she responds. “You knew my grandma?” 

“Oh yes, I know Rosey very well. We’ve been inseparable ever since I moved in next door 15 years ago.”  

“Wait…what do you mean by knew?”

Cory hesitates, unsure of how to deliver the news of her grandmother’s passing. “Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?” she offers.

Cory explains everything to the woman, who she discovers is named Harriet Jameson. She tells the woman about her grandmother’s passing, that she inherited the apartment, and that she used to be super close to Roslyn when she was a little girl but hadn’t really been in contact with her for the past few years. Her mother moved them across the country when Cory said she wanted to be an artist like her grandmother. Harriet responded to the news of her friend’s passing just as one would expect. Salty tears, shaky breaths, polite sniffles.

“She used to talk about you all the time. How you both shared the gift of creating life. I always thought she just meant bringing life to your art until she showed me the chest,” Harriet says.

“Wait, you know about the chest?” 

“Oh, I know about the chest alright. I have this pretty little badge of honor from the chest,” Harriet lifts the purple fabric of her long sleeve shirt, showing Cory a healed yet raised scar on her forearm.

Cory stares at the scar. “That…that came from the chest? How?”

“Well, your grandmother got lonely one week when I had to travel to Montana, so she decided to draw herself a little friend. Only that little friend wasn’t so friendly. Rosey drew a beautiful calico, hoping to get some company. Unfortunately, that thing didn’t have a single good bone in its furry little body. The whole week I was gone; that cat was vicious. It was like it was trying to kill Rosey, so she locked it in her closet until I came back. When we let the cat out, it started attacking us and wouldn’t stop. I had to take a shovel to its head before it could do any more damage. Ever since then we made a pact. Never draw alone.”

“Woah,” is the only word Cory can say. “So do you have the gift too?”

“Kind of. I can draw inanimate objects. If you want a triple chocolate cake at two in the morning, I’m your girl. Creating life, not so much. Your grandmother has been the only person I’ve known who can create life in the chest.”

“How did you inherit this place anyway? You said you haven’t seen Rosey in 10 years, so why would she leave her apartment to you? Why didn’t she give it to your mom? You know, now that I think about it, she never really talked about your mom.” 

Cory knew she would have to address these questions at some point.

“I’ll spare you the details, but my mother never supported my grandmother’s gift. She says it’s dangerous. If the wrong people were to find out about it, my grandmother’s life would have been in danger. Who knows, she could’ve gotten kidnapped and forced to draw for the rest of her life. She packed us up and moved us across the country because she didn’t want me around that kind of risk."

⁎⁎⁎

Alone again and in desperate need of a break from all this magic talk, Cory decides to use the regular paper to ground herself. She grabs a normal notebook and a mirror off the wall. When she was young, her grandmother made her draw self-portraits so she could “find the beauty in herself.” She hates it at first but then realized it allows her to slow down and reflect on her strength, energy, and worth. She hopes that it will bring her some clarity and confidence in this time of confusion.

After an hour of drawing, Cory finally finishes her self-portrait. It looks like me, but there’s just something off about it, she thinks to herself. That’s always the problem with self-portraits. There’s something uncanny about them. Something is always off. The eyes, nose, mouth, anything really. Nonetheless, Cory feels like a weight is lifted off her once she finishes her portrait. She didn’trealize how badly she needed some self-reflection. She smiles softly to herself in the mirror and then again at her drawing.

Her smile quickly fades as she hears whirring around her. Cory’s stomach drops. She immediately knows she’s made a mistake.

“No, no, no, this can’t be happening!” she says to herself in a panic.

She hurriedly flips over the notebook, begging it to be a soft cover sketchbook. Her heart drops as she sees that it’s in fact a hardback sketchbook. Her ears grow hot, and she feels like she’s suffocating as the whirring sound grows louder than usual. With trembling hands, Cory rips the paper in half, hoping it puts an end to the manifestation that’s taking place. She stares at the chest in terror. It’s too late.

The lid slams shut so hard she thinks the hinges are going to be blown off. Instead of the whirring stopping when the lid shuts, it just grows louder. The trunk is thumping so hard it’s shaking.

"No," she says so quietly, desperation coating her tongue. Her chest grows tighter as she holds her breath, waiting to see the true consequences of her mistake. She stands frozen in horror. She wants to run to the box. She wants to lock it, to run back to the other side of the country and never come back, but her feet are cemented to the ground.

Suddenly, the thumping and whirring stops. Silence. Then, the red lid slowly starts to lift on its own. Four fingers slowly curl around the edge of the trunk. Before she knows it, the lid is completely flipped open, and Cory sees a body. A girl. It can’t be, she thinks. There’s no more movement. Maybe ripping up the paper worked. Cory creeps closer to the box but is still ready to turn and bolt out the door if necessary. There’s still a decent amount of room between her and the chest. As she peers forward, Cory sees the girl’s contorted body. The right foot is folded behind her head, while the other is folded underneath her. One hand is gripping onto the edge of the trunk, and the other is perched upward and behind the girl’s head, on the opposite side as the foot. Cory takes small, shallow breaths, praying that the girl doesn’t move.

The girl in the box begins to unfurl and stand up, her bones cracking and popping into place. She steps out of the trunk, making intense eye contact with her. Just as she feared, the girl staring back at her is a perfect clone of herself. Well, almost perfect. There is something off about her, something uncanny. Her mouth has no smile lines, her forehead and eyes have no wrinkles, and she’sinhumanly pale. Her eyes are too small for her face, and too dark, almost like there’s no soul within her. Her cheeks are a little too sharp. Cory is unable to look away. Her arms prickle with goosebumps, and her stomach drops as her clone slowly tilts her head to the left, smiling without her eyes.

“Hello Cordelia,” the clone says.

Cory remembers the story about the cat. She knows there’s no happy ending to this. Stupid, stupid, stupid, she thinks, ashamed of how careless she is. Still frozen in place, she thinks, Of course, I can’t have the instincts of running or fighting right now, annoyed at her body’s chosen state of response. Cory tries to move her feet, but it’s no use.

Her clone starts creeping toward her, dragging her feet across the wooden floor. It takes an eternity for her to make her way across the living room, not stopping until the two are a foot apart from each other. The clone lifts her right hand and gently pushes Cory’s hair behind her left ear, caressing her face. A hot tear streams down Cory’s face as she tries to find any ounce of strength and survival within herself. “Please, no,” she begs, barely in a whisper. The clone stares into Cory’s eyes, her icy stare matching the cold of her fingers. Just as her hand reaches the base of Cory’s neck, she lifts her left arm and brings both hands to engulf Cory’s throat. The clone’s eyes grow darker, her smile growing wider as she begins to squeeze. Cory’s hands shoot up to grip the clone’s wrists. Her adrenaline begins to pump. She yanks down on the clone’s arms, trying to break her grip, but it only tightens harder. Tears stream down Cory’s face as she realizes her fate. The clone isn’t human, and it’s stronger than Cory could ever be. Losing oxygen, Cory’s knees buckle and she falls to the ground, taking the clone with her. The lights in the apartment begin to fade as she gasps for air. She continues to wriggle and fight, but to no avail.

In a last-ditch effort, Cory takes as deep of a breath as she can, barely being able to muster up a scream.

“HARRIET!”

Byron F. Aspaas was featured as part of the Fall 2025 Southern Colorado Reading Series. He is Diné. He is Táchii’nii, born for Tódich’iinii. raised within the four sacred mountains of Dinétah, Byron received his BFA and MFA from the Institute of American Indian Arts (IAIA) in creative writing. Byron’s writing reflects upon the eradication of Navajoland, which draws readers into discourse about preservation with Diné culture and land.

Byron’s first published work was included in Yellow Medicine Review and continues to appear in numerous journals and anthologies as a poet, an essayist, and fiction noir. Each of his writing can be found in Weber: The Contemporary West,  Denver Quarterly, International Writing Program Collections, The Rumpus, Santa Fe Noir, Shapes of Native Nonfiction and The Diné Reader.

Byron is working on a compilation of essays and a collection of poems; his work reflects upon his upbringing through identity, the exploration of the written tongue, and the mis/understandings inside the Glittering World with language, landscape and persona.

Byron is a lecturer at Colorado State University – Pueblo and a poetry mentor for Western Colorado University’s Graduate Program in Creative Writing. He is a board member of Writing by Writers, a poetry editor for terrain.org, and the poetry master as well as part of the advisory committee for The Identity Project.

Byron lives with his partner, six dogs, and four cats in Colorado Springs, Colorado.

Interview with Byron F. Aspaas  

Tempered Steel Prose Editors 

Q. What inspires your work?

A. Experience. I think living through life has given me enough to reflect upon when it comes to ruminations that liven my work. Listening to people speak and how they articulate words through the motions, but also never taking the same road twice when it comes to paths. I love to explore—even when I do take the same path every day, I try to notice something different each time. It’s like being in the passenger’s seat and viewing the same road I’ve driven on a hundred times, but as a passenger, I get to sit and enjoy but also watch and explore!

Q. Can you describe your writing process?

A. Quite honestly, I don’t have one. I think I allow my fingers to type what lives inside my head to get what’s needed out on the page; but then, when it’s time to returning to the work and revise what’s been written, I begin to notice the common thread that strings itself together. Maybe that’s my process? I guess it all depends on what I’m writing or how I’m feeling that day: Poetry, Fiction, Nonfiction. I am constantly thinking, therefore, I feel I’m constantly writing (but in my head). The beginning of the book I want to write starts with “Writing Ruined My Life”, probably because I think all the time [now] how to work, re/work, re/word phrases, thoughts, linescaping and how it can be presented on the page or in a poem. Sometimes, it doesn’t come out how I expect but then returning to the page, after a small break, allows me space to return to the piece with a fresh eye.

I love to mountain bike because I can’t run anymore. A lot of my thoughts stem from there. Many of my poems and ruminations begin at the trail head. Don’t text and bike, folks, but find your path and your process. We are all unique in that way.

Q. Since you write in multiple genres, how do you decide which genre to write in when you have an idea? 

A. Poetry lives inside me. Therefore, poetry seems to live in all my work. Many of the audiences I read to think I read poetry when it’s an essay filled with lyrical elements. I learned to weave a fiction piece into something similar to the lyric essay, which allows me to step into hybrid forms. I guess if you ask me to write a short story, I will write one. I feel my all work treads along the same avenue as poetry but with tweaks and grammar fixes, I can create any genre through different styles of poetry: narrative, lyric prose, deep image, zuihitsu, surrealism, futurisms, speculative, etc. I do have stories I want to write and essays I want to begin, plus poems which have written themselves on walks or bike rides [see previous question] or during drives. I guess that’s my answer: “The words write themselves into creation for the genre they want to be born into, but poetry is that common ancestor they are a descendant of.”

Q. How do you integrate your identity within your work?

A. Which identity are we speaking of? Sometimes, I feel like Batman; while other times I feel like Spider-Man because each wear a mask; however, one was born human who was bitten by a radioactive spider which altered his DNA and the other is just a man who can fight well because of trauma. As Navajo, as a Diné, I am forced to wear a mask, always, to be accepted in this world of writing—and forced to speak like others without any hint of my true identity, which I hide constantly, because my rez accent is pretty gnarly (but I love it). While, amongst other great superheroes who have ultimate superpowers, I have to be a man and not a boy, however, my immaturity shows (sometimes) and my colleagues can tell I’m young (in teaching and writing). As a male, I am forced to be strong because people see a man before them, but also I have to hide parts of me because I’m also a gay male; but also, as a male, I am constantly looked at as a threat because of those male attributes but really I see myself dressed in pink and I really want to be adored by all and not constantly looked at as harmful, toxic, or masculine. If we’re really being honest, I would want to be looked at as Dazzler. She’s a Marvel character I’ve always admired. Look her up.

Does this answer the question? My identity is always included in my work.

Q. What general advice do you have for burgeoning creatives?

A. Memory Maps, Journals, Reading. We learn a lot about ourselves when we re-enter our childhood through a mapping system. As kids, we are constantly told to grow up. I tell my students to remember. To remember parts of themselves they were forced to forget is the power of writing because that imagination is gold, it’s key, and it’s also integral for the creation of poetry, fiction, and most importantly nonfiction. We learn about ourselves in the process, but we also learn about others; but more importantly, we learn how to heal within ourselves. I was once told, “You are not a therapist.” In all honesty, I do feel we are (even in my regular English courses), because many of my students re-enter spaces they’ve pushed to the side due to being forced into adulthood. Trauma comes in all forms, grief as well [see identity question, see Batman answer]. We learn because our body forces us to forget but something will always resurrect those memories. How do we deal, how do we cope, how do we heal from those old ghosts who have come back to haunt you? Writing is therapy and writing helps heal. Writing is also power.

Metamorphosis: A Poem 

I.

Country Music Drags Shalimar Out of Bed

She walks into  the  bar.  Turning.  Lights glitter  the walls 

from  disco  balls scattered  in six directions.  Fog churns 

and  turns with cyclone whirls.  Country music twangs the 

dancers to step in twos. High heels click while bottle caps 

flip.   She  scours   the   sopping  jungle  like  a  huntress. 

Turning.  Gin and tonic  concoct messages of heat  which 

funnel  down  a hollow  stomach.  Turning.  On the dance 

floor she  slinks as  stars swirl like the vapors around her. 

Turning.  Venus  aligns.  Hands   over  her  stomach,  she 

sashays from side to side.  The brew soothes t he burn—

libations  refresh the breath.  The lime floats on its side in 

a  pool  of  watery  spirits.  Turning.  Sweat  beads  down, 

glistens,  and  drips  to  the  floor. Wet constellations form 

and  reflect  light.  Men  watch her legs and lick their sun-

dried   lips—rub  their   stiffened   dicks—and   watch  her 

panty-hosed  hips.  Turning.   She  gyrates   like   stars  in 

revolution,  moves   in   slow,   sluggish   motion.  Turning. 

Turning  heads with  her   secret  of  a  spirit   split  in two.

II.

Shalimar

She walks into the bar. Lights glitter the walls

from disco balls, scattered in six directions. She turns.

Smoke churns, fills room. Country music twangs,

dancers step in twos. She turns. High heels click. Bottle

caps flip. She scours like a huntress. The liquor sends

mixed messages of heat down to her hollow stomach.

She turns. On the dance floor she slinks, and stars swirl

like the smoke’s apparition around her. She turns. Venus

aligns. Hands over her stomach, she glides from side

by side. She turns. Tonic soothes her yearn. Gin refreshes

breath. The lime floats in a pool of watery spirits. She

turns. Sweat beads down, glistens, drips to the floor.

Watery stars form and reflect light. Men watch her legs

and lick their sun-dried lips, rubbing their dicks, she

touches her self-made tits, swaying her slender hips.

She turns. She spins like stars in revolution, moving in

slow, slow motion. She turns heads with her secret.

   A spirit split in two.

III. 

Excuse This Beauty

         For Stephanie

Shalimar entered her midnight rodeo

          a room littered with disco balls

she poured water spirits—drink after drink

          after drink six—

          by six, she sinned.

Of this smoke-filled room

           foggy dreams loomed over

two young lovers woven in twos

           leather heels clicked bottles

          capped open, she swilled—

distilled laughter turned gin,

           she stomached the first swallow—

a hallowed reed of vapored stars,

           tonic swilled down

into neon orbs, bubbled vivaciously, inside

             the ship lapped sky—framed

in a constellation of sweat beads

             created inside the creation

of ghost lights, of neon stars,

            lanterned palms swayed to midnight

in a cavern of liminal space

           near the juke box,

            men in shadows

stay hidden—

         sun-dried lips licked,

Shalimar’s hips shook the lonely light

        beneath the neon moons

        she danced in and out of the beams

                                of broken dreams

she shook the world whole

            turned blue, thought clouds she released

into the east, as the sun set down

she danced in and out of broken dreams

            —her spirit streamed in two.