Archives :: Julie Platt
Watching the Fire
Appeared in the Spring 2004 issue.
Matte gray silk shot
through with amber-red
flies out between the boards.
There's a mad weaver
inside the house, stirred
to breath by the kiss
of a cigarette.
The sound of murmured thunder
pulls away what we know to do.
Right now, we do not fear disease
in the still water, the bulging
belly of a brown-eyed child,
or the cyclone at midday.
Not in this air.
We forget to carry water,
to sound the town bell.
Instead we remember flush
and break of first sex, or a sister,
lost now, who was more alive
than God.
View bio information and additional poems published in Half Drunk Muse on the author's main archive page.
Copyright 1999-2008 Julie Platt.