WOOD ARM ALLEGATION Driven perpindicularly through with compressed woods, around which the lilac wound flutters like its blanched bloom, the history of this arm strikes us with self-pity, each fiber of its staggering drop-dance puts us on the floor where we have previously mated writhing maternal injuries now, how we see an expiration of our partially own unwilling mutiny upbraid dense memory. The pursuant downslaught calls upon our most daring reserve of sublimity in the rainy hour, to chariot this misery affluence into the right admixture: we call out three or four names, strike the remaining lantern to fade-spot our mystery and push the clutch through the floor. Up, in, the sage complex placidity radiates throughout the building, waiting. Deliver me to a new ethic, I wish the controlled sweep through these desolate neighborhoods to shine up the real heroine's dodging face, furred and pinched like a bat and striped with the splinters of pulp-board slatted into the eyes of the cyclone perimetry. With soddish time-cracker bigotry raking dismay wires for praise in the afternoon flats, we forget how danger sweeps over the blasted plains and grain floors. Andrea Brady Index |
The East Village Poetry Web Andrea Brady |