FELICIA ZAMORA
Beneath the stairwell Winds arrive; you herd my shoulder in one hand, purse in the other; roof bellows & still your fingers do not know gentle; beyond panes trees tilt—how we all subject to force; you deposit me in basement; chandeliers of dust; under, you point; wood panels paw my back; & must, wilted cheese, & the mouse’s head separate in trap’s hammer; marble-eyes say sorry, sorry.
Raleigh Review | 39
