Alison Stine Pantoum After Falling It would be beautiful were it not on my body. Now the dark softens into red. Blood makes it way back to the body. Were it not on my body, the bruise, cloud risen back to the body, might be water stain on copper. The bruise, cloud risen, gathered into lakes, might be water stain on copper. I cannot picture it dispersing. Gathered into lakes, I cannot picture it dispersing— my want for you, still sharp, a rib I carry. My want for you, still sharp, beaded in flesh, a rib I carry, were it not on my body. The Wolf after "Beauty and the Beast" by Fred Betz, oil on canvas Only the wolf is smiling. I tell you this without pretense, without figure. It is like this: only the wolf is smiling, mouth all red, above a girl. He might be remembering his body as a man. He might be saying, I can't wait forever. The candle won't unlast. Wick emerges from wax, the lover, caught burning a girl's face in the alley, unforgiving. The flat gloss of the photograph recoiled, became a hand, blackened as he waved, feed the match, wondering: how can it be? how can it represent anything? He was startled, stomping out my hair. I tell you, it is like this in the painting in which I live: if there are locks, they are locked. If there is help, it is not coming. And because you might, of all the ways, enter: door made helpless and wide by winter, bolt rusted, shifting to shards—by the unbarred window in bed my body may best be reached, smiling, as I left it. about Alison Stine