Monday, January 16, 2006


there is bed rotation too
many adults and
two children and

too few rooms. A
bedroom door to
memory which

stands ajar only
enough for air flow so
very cold alone – moon-

light none - parents gone
drinking n
nanny a

white bird's nest topped ghost laid out
in the other

room. They both scream mommy it
seems continuously
they both seem to

make the same mistake to crave the
woman who
drove the

screws in who fixed the
iron bar to the
top of

the door so that
it couldn't be

more than a few inches

they wouldn't get out. Soon
soon she'll be

drunk and
with any luck and
despite heels reach up unhook and

let herself in and by the skin of
their teeth they'll be bidden
their ritual

urination before they
wet themselves where they
have been left lying crying but

is this her their mommy or
their dying nanny or
the ironmonger

come to do the

I thought I'd let you know I added you to the list of 100 Blogging Poets In 100 Days-- Episode II. I hope it brings you lots of new fans.
I like the prosody of this, the line & stanza breaks. Also the fact that it straddles the thin line between straight narrative & post-avant. So, congrats.
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