by Maggie Bàra
Signing twice, I return the Judge’s pen. His signature is like spit. “You are hereby divorced from yourself.”I thank the men of the courtroom and shake my own hand, very business-like. I start to miss her as I watch her turn and click heel and float away towards the ceiling, leaving through an open window.
“Restraining Order stands.” My attorney checks his watch. I know. I can’t look at a blue sky or the mere reflections of the moon. The World and Sun still scold me, saying “Happy?” I haven’t got that part to me anymore, she wanted out.
Maggie Bàra is currently working as a professional dishwasher until she saves up enough money for her space shuttle back to M’Violemprè. In the meantime, she sends transmissions of poetry and prose in an attempt to stay sane and paints pictures of eyeballs in teacups.