Sunday, December 18, 2011

displacement by Brock Marie Moore

she sat crosslegged on the bed
perfect as if a wire pierced
her body (skull, heart, root chakra)
and strung the leyline of her spine from
rose quilt to ceiling

she wandered the paths of her mind
when she (still seated, still crosslegged)
and dropped - a sinking lotus -
out of reality: through the mattress
through the floor
falling faster
punching through thin paper layers of day
and night and place;
coffee-filter layers
herself heavier than the morning's tepid grounds

she touched down, inertia absent
in an origami landscape
where (how could it be otherwise?)
she knew she was the monster

her talons pierced a paper house
swept low a copse of fan-leafed trees
and still
she tears the land with grasping hands
chews paper swans between mechanical teeth

Author bio:

Brock Marie Moore lives in South Texas with a ludicrous number of cats and a spirit-weary dog. She writes poetry and short stories, sculpts clay into miniscule pointless forms, and customizes My Little Pony toys to make them more interesting and monster-y. Please visit her at Brock Marie

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