Language is a curled animal bite we can’t do without. At times I wake up at night to fold our breaths neatly into untied shoelaces. When I was young I realized that we pulled our teeth out one by one to flatten words into alternate dooms. It requires an artist to blow up pretext into geometric soda sips. Smallness won’t stop colliding with erased pencils even if we stuff muscles into throats to stop dreaming. As if knowledge can ever turn itself into a dilated pupil. Like it is a holocaust business.
Carol Whitby is currently pursuing her MFA in Sydney, and is working on her first poetry chapbook.
Eunoia Review 