My first shoes were pink, cobbled
from French verbs. When I was hungry,
I pulled Mother out of my mouth
in the imperfect. The sound of words
nourished me, the way Cottager's Wife
might reach out with a net
to scoop a trout from the waterfall's rush.
I wore Jo's gray poplin backwards,
a sooty scorch-mark across
my preteen breast. My creators
adorned me with moral instruction.
("Rising from prayer, her load of sin and sorrow
was gone, and her heart made light.") If only
I'd acknowledged life's texture
of paper and ink. I could have been
adverbial, singing "Ly, Ly, Ly",
a fireplace thickly smoking in the pivotal scene
of Middlemarch. I was a poorly
diagrammed sentence. The last chapter
shoved me, pregnant, from a row-boat.
I swallowed arsenic, died fever-hot.
What villain clipped the tossing feathers
on my funeral wagon's black horses,
reducing them to the dust of empty quills?
-
Issue 54
-
Editor's Note
-
Poetry
-
Fiction
-
Book Review
- David Rigsbee reviews Blue Rust
by Joseph Millar
- David Rigsbee reviews Blue Rust