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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 3264 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention The Sleeping Fury Laurie Byro She is back: the bitch-poetess who captures me with cramped fingers, releases me into a pale New Jersey morning. My name was Luz Corral de Villa. A clipped newspaper, yellowed and tattered as a thread-bare undershirt is all that is left of my life. This bitch is devoted to keeping me restless. I wander the rooms chasing rats for my general. I stalk the mansion he built. Pancho had kisses like fire, eight mistresses. I was the royal whore he called wife. I cradled him to my bosom when our baby died. All this grief leaks from a white woman's pen when she hunts me down in a park half a world away. She spends her day with books and old papers. I hear the scribble of her again. She takes her walk. She stops twice: once to sketch the pattern of a dead butterfly's wing, once to encourage a millipede to crawl across her bare foot. She presses her toes into the soil deeply. I smell her fear, the stink of her as she writes in stupid American slang. She is here now, to invade my privacy, my long sleep with my general. We are waiting for her, others like her. We writhe and spin into crawly things, into motes of dust, into ink. |
