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Tag Archives: Lorrie Ness
hunger spills like bare light— too thin to cup between our hands. one palm, two palms opening up the darkness. we know where to make our hinges, how to fold our thirst along its seam. across hickory boards laid down … Continue reading
There is no pendulum slicing the air. Metal pinecones hang from chains, measuring time in gravity. Instead of the cuckoo, it’s a flycatcher’s mad swoop, the wasp, still wriggling in its beak, swallowed whole. The bird recoils into the clock … Continue reading
In a jar beside the stove, we strain drippings from a skillet, wash them clean of old names, and christen them lard— as if rendering is a form of appellation rather than just salvation. We fold the word hog over … Continue reading
Earth is the basin that holds you. A depression where ashes cling trough to rim, is the body contoured to its maker. I will keep the dust from cataracting the nesting dolls still sloped along your windowsill— always with their … Continue reading
It stopped me dead at first. A pupil pushing back green irises flush at its sides—an opening in the woods you curated. Hawthorns with white blooms, honey locust limbs locking barbs above the path that splintered the hill in mulch—a … Continue reading
A paper crane hangs down from the rod above the window, surrounded by air but not quite flying. Stacks of square paper line his desk. He licks his thumb and slips a single white sheet from the closest pile. My … Continue reading
She lifts the arm with a single finger, sets the needle down on the exact groove where silence sputters and pops, turns itself around as if a circle is just a corner with no end. She closes her eyes and … Continue reading
In the quiet house, candies have no wrappers. Horehound barrels are mounded in a glass dish. She plucks them with a thumb and forefinger always from the top, so the others do not tumble— so there is no sound. In … Continue reading
In a house adjacent to shadow, the caldera surrounding her eyes, is the first to sunset. Something of a glimmer lingers on the rim despite the dimness— late afternoon scouring color from the cups laid out for tea. A web … Continue reading
I’m not comforted by funerals— killing flowers to honor the dead, spending money to rob nature of decay. What slows my pulse is the time-lapse footage of ravens standing on a corpse’s chest, beaks tugging at rotten flesh so forcefully … Continue reading
Straw-hatted & hoe slung she scatters seeds dribbles sweat & buries both in the field. There’s no shame in cutting the land. Look around earth is a thing of fracture. Evening-stretched shadows begin their move. The oak on the hill casts its limbs downslope their dark … Continue reading