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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 3574 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention The Fury of Anne (revised) Karen L. Monahan Someone writes poetry in passionate, backward swirls of blood across each windowpane. Inside the pea-green house I saw a shadow pass, heard a laugh and knew it was God. I tried to catch snow to show you, but these oven mitts destroy the flake's beauty. Even my dumb tongue won't describe the taste. I know the Nana-hex as if it were mine, I know God. Little lights encircle my air, fireflies stutter and whisper awkward news. I'm deaf, dumb, blind. At thirty-eight I'm told of eight distant cousins dead from the too-late disease that took you. I'm nine, ten, eleven and twelve forever. A good week is filled with poetry. God is on my plate, my dish, my spoon. God is on my pillow, my sheet. God is on the stairs, each chair. In my dresser drawer, Anne's empty notebook sleeps. God is not there. |
