Brigley and Amy
by Zoe Brigley
Your torn up photo is a voodoo curse:
Something to control the arc of your fist
in the torn up photo. (A voodoo curse?)
The scissors press into my palm:
Feather, paper and stone against the glass,
nothing to control the arc of your fist.
You expect some response, but there is none
except the scissors pressing into my palm.
Through the train window, the fields were blank:
feather, paper and stone behind glass.
A lack in us even when you touch me
as you expect some response, but there is none.
You stood on the platform, mouthed “I love you”
through the train window; the fields were blank.
All the faults that rocks have, you have mended,
except the lack in us even when you touch me.
You stood on the platform, mouthed “I love you”.
Nothing to control the arc of your fist
in the torn up photo: my voodoo curse.
© 2002 Zoe Brigley
On Gravity and Breasts
by Amy Templeton Buckley
Sometimes the world spins too fast for me,
then I look up and remember
that we’re really not moving at all (not really).
And my oldest friend is having a baby
(which is more proof of the above).
A boy. She knew it all along,
and they’re easier to travel with, she informs me—
rough and tumble, you know
(she’s afraid she’d warp a girl).
She had a dream last night that her breasts
were spurting water everywhere
and no one could figure out how to shut them off.
She says she’s afraid of her body now—
afraid of her breasts becoming appliances.
© 2002 Amy Templeton Buckley
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