NOVEMBER 4, 2015
By Thom Ingram
Her words moved through my stoned mother
like a wire pulled through a lump of clay,
her body held together
by a terrycloth belt of her bathrobe.
—from "Weather Of The Body"
The serrated knife
whets its metal teeth on the lengths of stems
leaving the end angled, open-mouthed.
—from "By The Flowers At The Supermarket"
I hold small echoes
in my hands. Each breath
a storm cloud. It is morning,
I dream no longer.
—from "In The Bathroom"
He wishes he could draw a comic
featuring a small mammal version of himself.
His animal would be a fox, he decides, and promptly
changes the title to “fox goes to the fox hospital.”
—from "Fox Goes to the Fox Hospital"
My telephone failed to reach you so I left
the flowers in my car under the streetlight.
I split the stem of one,
ran my thumb along the wet insides. They were alive,
the irises, somehow still blue as veins.