wicked alice| fall 2009

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Lisa Ciccarello




At night, inside the house, the dark has a sound:

key-turn; vessel filled with steam; glass on wood; the sheets pulled back; inside the wax, a pool of wax; step-sound: leather at the ankle; leather at the wrist; a chair moves across the floor; the steam returns, makes nothing sing; flattening of down; the ribbon lifted & a thumb run across; throat-call, more please than song. Let me show you.







At night:

The light of the moon is an ice-trick, cold shine. Everywhere light finds you; it draws you from your bed. Up. Everywhere it makes you a promise.

Not yet: pulse, bloom at your neck: nearing.

Up & even the tree fails to lift, branch after branch all fingerlings. Even closer, even if you could, nothing to warm you is coming.