Her words are
Diction defined.
Drawn down from a
Pressed Faulkner novel
That she never actually read,
She picks up a soft quill
In her orderly chamber,
Writes a word,
Dips her pen and writes another,
Weaving quilts of flowers and divine foods
In her strange smooth hand.
I collapse
Into illegibility rambled
Over the crush of a Dubliner.
She plucks her quill
From the nape of my neck.
Miss manners replies,
"Dear, dear, do not fret,"
And then calls me "rude"
When I slap away her quilts
Of gooey, sterile warmth
From my naked, torn, winter body.

Back to Issue 1, 1999

The Pen and Anvil Press


ISSN 2150-6795
© 1998-present by the Trustees of Boston University