Selected by | Mary Jo Bang |
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publisher | |
pages | 162 |
VIABILITY
The splintered log filled me mouth to groin. And growing—
growing, the emerald was blood. The stones in the water were
eyes and I was not recognized by either the givings or the
killings that will make a woman a mother, that will make a
mother a moon dropped to the water and carving out her own
eye. Our family was afraid for itself until we were worn. And
became, at evening’s porcelain quality, like even the dead dog’s
bones, silent and white. The infant and the carriage, frozen
below the firepond—they held themselves, were alone. We
looked down at them through thick ice while they ripped him
from me in the single, performed, loneliness.