My name is Carla Pound, and I currently reside in Indianapolis. I was born in Memphis, grew up in a small town in rural Indiana, and have spent the rest of my life desperately trying to forget that fact. I divide my time between working, writing, and staring blankly at my computer screen at obscene hours of the night. I have not yet been published, but derive a masochistic glee from reading my growing pile of rejections.


I can't really write unless it's past
midnight. Seriously. One of these
days, I'm going to collapse
at work. My boss is such an
asshole that he'll probably have
someone move me out & pin a note
on my skirt saying: You're
fired. I can't say that I won't
deserve it, but I can't say that
I'll like it, either. And even I know
that wearing a tight shirt and
letting him oggle my breasts
won't get me out of this sort of
situation. Sometimes it's best
not to provoke these things.


five hundred steps again to the old cemetery,
my feet sinking into the cradle where
our first-born sleeps- now the wind smells
like the aster scent you've unconsciously been
bringing home since this new semester began-

and underneath my eyelids,
the pallid blossoms are stitched-
mostly, i wander the gardens at night,
the moon crooning mad accusations in my ear-
but i am still alive.

my mother says to me
that there are no good husbands left.
she's checked. she left her faith
with the third divorce attorney.
i sit across the table, sipping
mandarin orange tea, and she says:
hold on. hold on. there are worse
things to be borne. she says:
the good husbands are the ones who
keep on pretending, even as the evenings
dwindle down to darkness.

i tell her: no, no, they lie too gently.
then they gather their coats with excuses,
and you are not afraid for your union
because no liar can smile so charmingly-
they are there for much more than love, and,
alone and sucking adoration like smoke,
are found desiccated in each withered petal-
buried in an august dust
many, many miles from their home.

you once promised me
that you'd take me to the jungle-

five years later,
you are still a liar.