Larissa Szporluk


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