Wednesday, January 03, 2007

The Back of Her Hands

When the nights were cold the harridan wrapped herself in a woolen blanket she’d found in the trash, a Christmas gift thrown away like an unwanted child, a rag-doll that had crept passed a too-loose diaphragm. She pulled her knees tight into her chest and dreamt of magic gardens and warm water, of what could have been but never was, of a past that she couldn’t forget as much as she tried, her mother’s wailing cry, a hungry dog full of madness and hate. She slept in the murder of her thoughts, trying to remember how to forget, the cold biting into her cheeks, the back of her hands, her eyes pressed tight, waiting for morning, waiting for it all to stop.

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"Poetry is the short-circuiting of meaning between words, the impetuous regeneration of primordial myth". Bruno Schulz

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