The grapes he foraged set my teeth on edge.
I want to hack through their wild vines, dissect
this anger. It's a tangle: steep hill strung
with old foxgrapes among the hardwood, tough
enough to swing from (proto-bungee rush
that's like a fit of rage, adrenalin
alive inside me), or to strangle in.
Vines choke.
Mots clés rural
You're from somewhere, aren't you?
Elizabeth HadawayMots clés home sense-of-place
Get up to turn your chair away from her
a few degrees. And look at me. I may
be someone else's longed-for phantom. Pour
me some more wine; tell me the story; listen:
it's a dreary wish to want the whole world ghostless.
The crunch of bone is what religion thrives on.
Elizabeth HadawayMots clés religion
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