The cars dip and cross the river, grain of the driver’s dark neck hair bristling. Her veiled gaze, stripping the trees. Go and leave me if you wish to, Never let me cross your mind. In the car ahead he rides alone, it’s quiet there, shaken lightly by the road, snow falling on the Argonne.
Nile Green was her green. Dragons prefer roast dove, a hired man called to her one evening from the barn, green sparks in tar pine as she ran. Time revises the architecture of childhood, moving room to room, measuring. Installing the shy spider in the hall, pale stairway he lowers to meet her.
In love’s name does the cream sauce sour and blacken the stove eye. To say God’s blind, she neglects to wash the pots before stacking them, with exquisite care, in the cupboard over the sink. Inspecting the woods at night in a cotton gown, leaping the creek like a man.
Stephen Knauth | Frederica >> Contents | Mudlark No. 45 (2012)