--- K I M I K O H A H N
I need to dislodge for a point outside but I cannot leave the emptied-drawers of deception, the clothes and towels of fury, the hangers of defeat, the bowls of sorrow, the panes of bliss that may be used as bowls. Here the daughter resides among the silverware she polishes and distributes in the orderliness of the heart's disorder. The month's order and disorder. Odor of bloody cotton, of stews with carrots and onions. Raisins. There is no outdoors. Exit does not exist. For the daughter to begin her own narrative she must leaf through a vocabulary I conjure from a mattress doused with kerosene, lighter in hand.
© crossconnect 1995-1998
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