wicked alice| winter 2009

Elizabeth Hall


light & dark

the difference between light & dark becomes indistinguishable in a house where drinks pass hand to mouth. faces shaded, voice like bees wearing coats. a girl wants to know you read emma goldman? say i don't read. was born blind & only gradually gained sight.

dear friends, sorry i left. took a walk, the moon dim. sorry i sat on a strangers stoop, two hours thinking
the leaves are sweating! its spring almost, but trees don't sweat; i can't wish them into being.

when i return, someone asks
what was it like being blind? having already forgotten my lie, i think they're referring to tonight.



everywhere a surface

do you love being covered, stuffed with me? i want nothing from andrew. yet he gives. at night he cries into his hands they don't understand. he gushes, slides closer on the couch, places a hand on my mouth. he's so wet with this emotion, when he touches, he leaves watermarks. stains. they remain on the places he's been. his mark, as if in vengeance, for the fact I don't understand & probably never will. every morning we wake. his mouth culling me from liquid sleep. he presses himself upon me. his entire body is wet with the sadness & so it glistens. i see myself clearly on all his surfaces. yr mine. he unbuttons my dress. yr mine. hands sliding down my belly. mine. livid thing lit, he shouts with intent. yr mine. he repeats till my body can't reject the words anymore. i absorb every syllable. when we're done, he's wheezing, practically heaving. i study the mark's he's left on my skin in admiration.




for rent

there is a patsy cline song about me. about walking ten million blocks listening to the moon wheeze. the trees sway, lean close & say child, why are you still awake? my feet ache. head clawed up, liver leaks blood. look: there are stains on my pants, the concrete, everywhere. reminders of where i've been & where i'll be again. again. two hours ago, i sat in the stairwell of tim's apartment having fake conversations with my voicemail. i'm at a terrible party? you? upon arrival, tim force fed me red meat: since when did you get so thin? true, the wind could blow clean through my body. i shrink, loose hair. my carpet's clotted with stray strands; the cat rolls them into tiny balls, paws to the left, then to the right. we listen to patsy cline for rent for rent an empty heart, a bed. white sheet queen. i lay in the center of the mattress, marveling at the space between my body & the bed's edge. i imagine myself invisible, laying there, obliterated by the expanse.