text mode CrossConnect previous next

Issue Contents
E-mail Us
   y o u    t o o k    f r o m    m e    a l l    m a n n e r    o f    t h i n g s

--- J O A N   H O U L I H A N

In a room carved apart pinching the end of a hair from this world, I am not let in to the next. My fingertips stick as to volted wire, teeth and bones banging, cells wracked. I am a wreckage

of light. Rid me. The pomp of Spring, its flood and buzz all counterfeit. Sweat bothers the back of my neck like a flea. Will you rid me. Make the wolf mild, the rabbit, in its panic, soothe. Not intact, not me, not ever, exactly, again, I will be rid of season and cycle, be various

and multiple as the grass, will go where you would not have me, body left, hard. Solitary as the mason bee that builds its nest to crumble, I am intent, intend to follow you fast as you go, I will go too cold, rabbit, and daft as moon.

© crossconnect 1995-2001 |
published in association with the |
university of pennsylvania's kelly writers house |