graphics mode c r o s s X c o n n e c t previous | next

| main page
| issue contents
| contributors
| e-mail us
   v i t a m i n    s e e

--- A M Y   H O L M A N

We begin our day
in air warmer than our bloods,
below sky without blemish.
The lions are napping.
My best friend turns the radio dial.

Dry rails clattering, a freight train passes, bloom-bloom, bloom-bloom, slicing the quiet summer valley of the stadium. Yet, we feel drenched with the taste

of invisible juice-- our pores now taste buds, our tongues, jealous. The gills of our car are giving us orange, the backs of our throats are

sweating. Not far perfume from behind the rind, but fruit crushed on wheels. How is this, where? Not cartons, not bottles, not skin,

just juice, gladdening a universe of track. I'd been so sad, betrayed by something I had not seen and here, I rise, like Andrew Wyeth's girl in a yellow field,

smelling the truth of how life rights itself. My best friend lifts her chin and stretches her neck, little blue heron in the pleasures of marsh.

© crossconnect 1995-2000 |
published in association with the |
university of pennsylvania's kelly writers house |