Larissa Szporluk Orrido The trickle, none, not even ghoul of long-ago imprisoned blood, and deeper still, the moth-filled lung, the teeth all chalk, and here the blind have sight and wish it not and belly-crawl to fool the light that cheats them out of subtle thought—no swipe of mud, no viper skin suspended on the moss, at least, all is clean, all is clean—no echoes of my daughter's voice lost in these same corridors when messed and moist and young. Comeuppance. I had burning-points and spiral horns. When taste was gone, Time ate his children too. And so did God, and so will you. about Larissa Szporluk