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   t h e    b r e a s t 's    s y l l a b i c s

--- 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.           

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