Bohm ♦ Carter
Gallaher ♦ Gruskin
Shannon Carson |
Not Beach Nor Backseat
If a body is made of houses it houses more bodies than bodies can use
but use them. This is almost true. And when the room is small do not
plant icicles. Take them into the hall and hang them. Hang the icicles
from the ceiling where there is no wax but whistling in the length of it.
Be sure there are blankets which are not necessary that are in need
of maintenance before they are taken and helpful to preserve the milk
and the wine and most definitely there should be. Be sure there is silk
narrow dressing gowns to cover the windows to keep the eye out of it. Languish in the light of it. The dark night of it making a wreck of at
least one room. This will provide with something to do with when
and when the icicles melt and something else is. A feather trimmed
pillow is not cause for alarm.
The Woman Playing House Inside My Head
There is a widow's walk
behind my widow's peak, a house
inside my ribs. A temple fallen,
now watery, now wet, with muddy
banks pushed up against the cold
arched four-chambered doorway.
It is always night, even as the sun
refracts in the south-westerly breeze
rippling its path across my glassy surface.
When I say my heart is a violin
what I mean is I wish I knew better
how to cry. There is a note, traveling down
the wire, in the distance,
one note and one song;
its one refrain simply:
I am weak,
I am weak.
Shannon Carson lives in Portland. She has had work recently in The Portland Review and The Smoking Poet.