wicked alice| fall 2009


current | archives | guidelines | blog | dgp| sundress

 

 

 

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.