Breath & Shadow
A Journal of Disability Culture and Literature
Spring 2012
Volume 9 Issue 2
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Breath & ShadowA Journal of Disability Culture and Literature |
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sharp by Brock Marie Moore the fishing lures have lured his daughter again. she floats down the aisles, trailing small hands in the bins of rubber worms, her head a damp wisp of dandelion caught in an unfelt breeze. these false nightcrawlers, their soft clear bodies alive with iridescence, have a hedonistic texture that draws small fingers: the squish, the stretch, the wriggle and writhe. "electric grape" - she reads the name of a violet worm gorged with glitter, then twirls away, caught in the mirrored shine of prismatic spoons with seed-bead eyes, flies in hot pink hula skirts, feathers achingly soft. he has warned her of the hooks; still she wanders the aquarium of painted plastic fish motionless in their blister packs, treble barbs dangling beneath peach bellies, a feast of stripes and dots on forms that rattle, click, and croak. her father cannot pull her back. may her fingers be careful, clever, and lucky. shallow six by Brock Marie Moore xanax drowns the witch reverses her sleep spell, to unbind my real self pushing the dark face back beneath the lip of my heart's stone well rage submerged, soothed wetted in tepid waters waveless and gray (i plead they remain still and gray) yet the cantrip of the small white pills cannot hold her floating face, her teeth; she will return like a vengeful drowned spirit dripping lake muck and rotten, ever bent on my destruction this witch twinned and humped backward inside my body - angrier now, chanting loud, her grip between my bones my own jenny green teeth the rusalka of my murdered soul age 10, sorting the dead by Brock Marie Moore on toetips i slip a thin arm through the cage door sleeve snagging on ill-clipped teeth of wire my hand dipping like a dove in the mouth of the kindling box expecting either the empty bowl of nest lined with wood peelings trampled straw gifted tufts of belly fur or the hot crepe-skin of newborns sleeping mounded my fingers tenderly tap, stroke each unseen form gauging heat and small struggles reluctantly seeking a lone cold body already going stiff at the nest's edge such are gently withdrawn discarded in the weeds outside mother rabbit's eyes watch me globes of wet fear glazed with despondence she turns to her bribe, green carrot-tops and sweet grass Brock Marie Moore lives in South Texas with her dog, Chester. When not writing, she is working to finish her Master's degree in library science, visiting various doctors concerning her BPD, anxiety spectrum disorder and TMJD, or getting distracted with sci-fi video games. Please visit her at http://brockmarie.net |