My first shoes were pink, cobbled
from French verbs. When I was hungry,
I pulled Mother out of my mouth    
in the imperfect. The sound of words
nourished me, the way Cottager's Wife 
might reach out with a net 
to scoop a trout from the waterfall's rush.  
I wore Jo's gray poplin backwards, 
a sooty scorch-mark across 
my preteen breast. My creators 
adorned me with moral instruction. 
("Rising from prayer, her load of sin and sorrow  
was gone, and her heart made light.") If only 
I'd acknowledged life's texture
of paper and ink. I could have been
adverbial, singing "Ly, Ly, Ly", 
a fireplace thickly smoking in the pivotal scene
of Middlemarch. I was a poorly 
diagrammed sentence. The last chapter 
shoved me, pregnant, from a row-boat.  
I swallowed arsenic, died fever-hot.
What villain clipped the tossing feathers 
on my funeral wagon's black horses, 
reducing them to the dust of empty quills?
					
				- 
		Issue 54
- 
		Editor's Note
- 
		Poetry
- 
		Fiction
- 
		Book Review- David Rigsbee reviews Blue Rust
 by Joseph Millar
 
- David Rigsbee reviews Blue Rust
 
				

