This Cold
This Cold begins to seep into my bones. . . .
Writings
Patterns
Fingers ache from pin prick sticks, patterns revealed. Food into mouth, insulin into stomach makes the poison fade. Every day this balancing act continues: test, eat, dose. Medications and carbohydrates — fate’s a mischievous mistress. Food into mouth, insulin into stomach makes the poison fade. People speak of getting high like it’s a game without
Popsicles
Remember the hottest day ever— sweat open-faucet pouring over your kid head sweltering & miserable mouth huffing steam— when you heard the merry jingle from the ice-cream truck fingered $.25 pocket treasures swallowed hard & shoved-popsicle-push-up-unmannered-into-mouth tongue exploding sticky summer satisfied & suddenly— you never wanted that day to end? That is your top lip.
Subdivision Yard Sale
The big sellers were my husband’s items: Electric paint roller Gun case A tree limb saw resembling the Grim Reaper’s scythe. My possessions proved less marketable: A few paperbacks Embarrassing, deeply discounted DVDs like the original Final Destination movie Old literature textbooks languishing in the “free to a good home” box Great works dismissed with,
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air changes down there
since when have we been afraid to swim in the deep, those rock-bottom dark depths that choke and twist? don’t forget that air changes down there or what your body feels like, limping without breath bobbing as boats push water from above. it’s smooth and loose and mellows like love. *** Linda Battson is a
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to-night
there’s a late night louisiana caw in the corner a humid grey night gurgle, glogging its treble birdy nightsong between folds of wet air. focus on that, I say. see the way this night does not contrast much with the tree right there, that reaching night tree, ripe in shadow and heavy with day gone