Contributed By: Elizabeth Switaj
fire tries the rotten planks
soft-surround
like my rotten toes & fungal nails
brittle bones
osteoporotic names
for my hands & what they say
could peel away the bark & heart
where my potato bugs & larvae
scramble, lay
their secrets to impure
oxygen & light in lichen lattice
they stand for something
, move too fast for me to tell
the truth
& dampness can’t be caught
Return to table of contents for Issue 2 Winter 2010
The only cure was lying on her back and looking up at the sky—losing herself in the drift of clouds during the day and the rise of stars at night. Sometimes she wondered if anyone could see her, if anyone was watching.
If it wasn’t for our inborn optimism –
we drop coins into the sea, plant pear trees that are going to grow for centuries –
understanding of reality would burn us
like a match may burn poplar fluff
To dream in your Mother Tongue / and stuffed, / consider it a success; // regardless of what it means.
