Monday, August 16, 2010



Fires singe your lashes and arm hair.
The pigment beneath your scalp flees.
Names bubble from you, unsummoned.

Your spine buckles, a tendon snaps.
Seismic disturbances lurk in this mud,
in our anatomy. Sure, we own the land

we live on, the body that we pilot out
into the potholed terrain of time.
Cells halve and double. Blades slice skin,

blood surging out like a choir, like oil.
Almost none of experience needs
your consent. Wrestle that to the floor

and clutch it against your chest, and
remember our planet, how no one asked
it if the moon could latch on.


  1. So true -- life just happens without our consent. Love the image of the moon latching on to our planet uninvited. That's a good one.

  2. Strong imagery leading to that come to a halt line "Wrestle that to the floor...."

    I, too, like "... no one asked / it if the moon could latch on".

  3. "Surging like a choir", lovely. And count me among the choir who enjoyed the moon imagery.

  4. yes i particularly like the last stanza too

  5. I love the intensity in this poem.

  6. Woo. This is great. Strong. Direct. Love the cells, love the blood, love the sarcasm, love the buckling spine, and how could you not love the moon.

  7. A powerful poem I'm still deciphering.


The Storialist. All rights reserved. © Maira Gall.