--- C A R M E N B U T C H E R
This explosive, long in the family, incessant, wooden, tall, loud leaving without a thought to consequence while your grand piano is black as night will be we are collapsed puppets on chairs and a sofa bookended by this terrible pair. Uniforms and squad cars and car trunks, morning broke underbrush, bent low searching wild shrubs for an earlier blue and white two syllables. But only heat hissing a long snake skittering neglectfully across brown leaves along that unforgiving ground which is not at last unpleasant. The leaves were very dead. My lips tasting salt and canines. Feeling the hours till darkness was something like the sanity we had lost. Sunburned red crested the hill, with a Mason's jar of water in a plastic bag, dirt, empty boxes, much spill forgetfulness however refused. The old friend with silver hair and barley soup for their supper almost fainted before the ghost called hope.
© crossconnect 1995-1999
published in association with the |
university of pennsylvania kelly writers house |