W.I.P.

Your temporary madness, Kate would call it.  Your solitary confinement.  Becca lived, and then she wrote it down.  She listened for music inside silence.  She had made a commitment to the unalloyed, the unveering line, the raw wound, the relentless grab at authenticity, and now she was two poems away from a new collection.  “I’m calling it Heart Blue,” she’d told Vin, a few nights before.  “Or that’s what it will be, when it’s finished.”