Tuesday, August 21, 2012
the bayonet, the blue grass at dawn, the sunset
sent like a dart. The crisp sheets, chipped shutters,
worn trails between house and barn, the porch light
left burning, the braying. The crying. The sound
of bees drinking honey. The sound of money.
The sound of being pushed up against the wall.
The barrel over the falls, cramped coal
chute dark as winter, the cur’s bone. The tannins,
the whitening irises. The whiskey-stained teeth,
the clattering teeth, china teacup atop a loose knee.
Paper curling like toenail, like horse tail. Swish.
Morning a bright, white picket fence: the rocket.
The red. But for the wall pushed up against.
Leigh Nash is a partner in the editing firm Re:word Communications, a publishing assistant with Coach House Books and a co-founder of The Emergency Response Unit, a chapbook press. Her first book of poetry, Goodbye, Ukulele, was published by Mansfield Press in 2010. She lives in Toronto.
Posted by Razovsky at 3:06 PM