10
-11
-12
-13
Cutup Voices"Don't cry over spilled lines,"my mother's voice echoes in my dreams. She stands on top of a cliff. In her hand, she holds a needle. Her voice, the needle, whirs in one ear and out the other ear. Her stormy, blackberry hair licks the horizon and fills the sky. Only clouds separate us. Clouds and time. "Don't cry over spilled lines," I tell myself in my dreams. And, then she's gone. |
Return --
Previous --
Next
Issue #18, December, 2000 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.