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               SARAH ALLARD

Chill

Woman heaves
deep breaths for the womblight;
we make our own fires, here. We heat
rooms, houses, beds. We

question the nature of such things: moisture in
all forms; how water will facilitate the warmth.
Does she still glow? Hot like a tongue.

And these are the blunt objects:
skin, its tissue, the whisper of it.

I have watched cold hands pen loveletters
at midnight, four am. Forgive: backbone
will slant and deform. Our heat will not allow
anything but mercy. Hunchbacks. Every one.

meaning, misplacement

I:

          Degradation: he sat in the back
          with his head slumped, cup
          in hand, and as he would
          vomit, I would reassure him that he was beautiful.

If he didn’t prefer penis to vagina, I would have never kissed him.

II:

Ice slept down pathways to my father,
to the front door, his wife and her scorn.
And my feet

were not sure enough
to do anything
but turn.

III:

Rounded as an abdomen carrying child;
this table. Our hands keep us
from ever loving

with their false warmth.

He passes over me
with a wink, so we can both pretend
to know the other.

IV:

         This bed and I
perform dry hump in my slumber;
I shear at my sheets with bitten nails,
throw pillows at the ground, curl around
the dog huddling into me for safety
          from me.

Copyright © 2004 sarah allard. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

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