SUBJECT>Re: Not Your POSTER>AnnMarie Eldon EMAIL>AEldon1@aol.com DATE>1111787595 IP_ADDRESS>ACCAB250.ipt.aol.com PASSWORD>aamj9SPBIdXow PREVIOUS>85458 NEXT> IMAGE> LINKNAME> LINKURL>

slight nits:

: Not Your

: Here, even the dead are alive.
: Watch her pin ghosts out to dry. Mama. Not
: your.
: Mine. No wind, yet sheets writhe
: on the line. And her apron flaps and flaps
: against her thigh, a wing
: that fails to fly. Bereft of breeze,
: I already told you. Yet restless, the tree
: rattles
: its glass skeleton; in the sun’s violent
: shine, the bottles glint [like] eyes,
: unblinking. The washtub opens its mouth
: to the sky, another, bluer eye[—as when Icarus
: melted and plummeted, no one
: and everyone saw what happened--]suds bubbling
: over like spit. So tell me why he dies
: and dies Tell me why we didn’t just heed
: her when she chided: Dinnertime.
: The thump-thump-thump of his heels, a pulse
: louder than my heart. My punishment, a knife
: that cuts out light. The eye that glares down
: from above blackens. Green becomes a scent,
: mown grass. The orange road out of here pales
: to dust. And mama, in the dark, big as this
: house, stirs
: and stirs the pot. Mama: The teapot’s accusing
: hiss, the curtains anxious shift, the
: floorboards creak,
: a slow, weighted progress, the mattress’s
: heaved
: sigh. When I trip, she does not pick me up.
: I press a silent cricket into her palm.
: She never says thank you or dinnertime.

I think you found your voice so well Icarus is an also-ran.

AnnMarie