Monday, May 16, 2005

the paper house (draft)

At the edge of the field, we see the angriest bodies.

The spell is in the wrists. The spell is in the shampoo.

Girls with long throats and a penchant for divining rods.

Seven years ago and the house burned beneath the moon

opening itself like a mouth torn out of a book. All the

minnows died overnight in their buckets, silver bodies

boiling on porches. Lightning bugs faltered in olive jars,

and our jawbones ached with want. Still, the mice shred

newspapers in attics filled with cages ripped

from hooks in parlor walls. In parlors ripped

from a woman’s skin, all eyelets and hooks. At the edge

of the field we watched with matches in our skirts.

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