K.A.Thomas

Writer’s Cramp Her handouts come right out of  Writing Down the Bones. She adores the ones who write about bread, wry Colorado housewives who knead & sift their daily poems with flowery Spanish, fold in high-fiber metaphors, low-fat fodder -- a complete silage of grainy analogy -- all follow her pre-processed recipe. How does your right hand smell? My right hand smells of wheat in summer. How does your right hand taste? My right hand tastes of ginger & spice. What does your right hand hold? My right hand holds the staff of life. I would grind her bones to make my poems. Tell her: carpus, metacarpus; sing each of the thirteen bones in descending order; divulge the secret of pisiforms podded near the junction of ulna & humerus; tell her: ungula, lunule, cuticle -- bury your theory in the dirt under my nails; tell her: the long bones of children, such gluttons of gingerbread, lie inarticulate in tall grasses sown by some witch’s hand. Tell her: My right hand is the open symbol Yod. It smells of the movement of light over water. It tastes like forbearance, & patience, & mercy. Tell her: My left hand is the strangulated Kaph. It smells of duct tape strapped too tight across a mouth. It tastes just like Ted Bundy in love. Write: I struck a woman once; drew back my left fist & struck her right beneath the eye, high along that delicate swell of cheek. I hit her like a man hits another man. I heard her bones break.

Copyright © 2000 K.A.Thomas All Rights Reserved