From the Archive: Jen Currin (CAROUSEL 20)
A Bat Unveiled
In the museum of land mines,
my acquaintance fans her wings.
Outside the sparrows catch fire.
A tree falls to its knees.
I become the sudden murderer,
unable to recognize the radishes
of my hands.
The dictionary shudders. Again I cannot be
alone. What is left of beauty
I sop up with a napkin, believing
it a limited supply. My only reading material
gives in to the blaze.
And now I burn the legs
of the chair, lest they touch
the ground. I would give anything
for a glass of water.
But there are only dirty spoons
and a shoe string I must walk across
to reach the other corner
of the room.
I have forgotten about the beds
in the neighbouring house.
The suitcases underneath crammed with shadows.
There is a drought in my throat
when I think of them.
When I answer before they can ask.