Kim Lock Veins Wiggle
Worm-like In the notebook she disarms you with her tongue: such sweet sounds, and wet. In the notebook her history explodes, the truth of it in graphite serifs. In the notebook a beaten-up battery silvery and useless: kept for a collage of spent images. In the notebook why not swim the length of the Wye, she’s always wanted to stand at its source, drink mystery: intelligence as in walnuts and rocks. In the notebook under dock leaves, hiding from seekers, earth moist and cool, blackberries a few days from ripeness. In the notebook direct objects fill vases, create sickness: tantamount to being left- handed, therefore sinister. In the notebook how glands rule urges and fears: let them be quiet while she’s on tenterhooks, while she dreams of being squeezed by a presence, fingers fat, confined. In the notebook torchlight scrapes the wall where air scuds: she’s seen it and wondered, heady: she’s held tight by agreement, by Anglo Saxon, by financial constraints and by stir-fries. In the notebook strange visions of a horse’s dirigible lips wolfing up a bruised apple while pigeon shit piles up next to straw bales: she tells him in a teeming moment of honesty that she did not cry when her mother miscarried, asked only if the baby was boy or girl. In the notebook she does what’s called speech, gross whistles, and makes veins wiggle worm-like: upon finding a hair that is her original color, she cries for her age, wonders what pregnancy would have been like: only in the notebook does she admit fear and panic at the closeness of the page: she yearns for a Himmelsbrief, a sign, anything that affirms her journey. In the note book she eats well and makes boot. |