The paralyzing tranquilizer of love stuckīack home, in my apartment, another woman lived there. This was before we got the dog even, and before I trusted This is Kentucky, not New York, and I am not important. I put my apron on as a joke and waltzed around carrying How south we were, far away in the outskirts.
I cried over the nonexistent bathmat, wet Hardwood planks under the feet, a cord to the sky.Įach time he left for an errand, the walls It was only months when it felt like I had been To all its forgiveness, unlocked the sternum’sĭoor, reversed and reshaped until it was a newīright carnal species, more accustomed to grief, Ticker marched on, and from all its four chambers
Of bitten bones and snake skins, eggshell dust,Īnd charred scraps of a frozen-over flame.Īll the things it has been: kitchen knifeĪnd the ancient carp’s frown, cavern of rust Was wide like the great eye of a universalīeast coming close for a kill, it was a cave It was, for a time, a loud twittering flight Ada Limón reads five poems from her new collection, Bright Dead Things, published in September by Milkweed Editions.
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