[…]


Mary Kasimor


            it never stopped raining patterns
                              like a ballet
            I ate the pancakes during that time
                    it was blueberries again       when I
                            was removed from my body
I sat by my grandmother’s morning
bell

                   I carried the sculpture two blocks
away (it rained)                           on the river banks
           I never stopped shooting the apple seeds
                                 although I was well aware
of the dangers when part of my left
                       side went through the back door
                                   hollyhocks grew out of the side
           of the alley while I ate
                            the heroes were

locked in
                dust but the story almost let them
out because it had a frontier woman’s
          bone pile        a piece of something
                    that held a pink umbrella
      she sat on
                a chair and watched the fan catch
the smoothness of sheets

I am swathed in white
I have left my toes uncovered

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