Poetry Issue 15

   Issue #17 : July-December 2012

Kerri Webster



Places


      An island. The campground. Everywhere.
      It's just that time thins like whiskey cut with water.
      At the sleep clinic, wanting to strip the electrodes off

      and glide home. Such feeble means: pill, wine, looped
      sea-sounds. In whatever bed
      listening to breathing, my body called

      by what, jerking, muscles holding their animal
      startle. By the Mississippi
      in the house of sleeping women, spidery basement,

      barges sliding past, my chest thick
      with damp. The prophets thumbtacked to the walls
      watching as I watched back.