Skip to main content

Silence is Not Golden


I am caught between the snake and the prey right now. Let's hope no swallowing is involved.


Here's a poem which circumstances demanded, though not in the way the poem implies. I just found out that Down Dirty Word nominated it for one of the best of the web anthologies. I appreciate that gesture, Katie and Jim. It wears its spleen on its sleeve, ergo, won't get in. But anyway, here it is:

Cutter

Between the witching hour and its successor, 
I caught her with my utility knife in the open closet, 
   
drawing a dark rill of blood from her forearm; 
I watched unsure of what to say or do, frozen, 
   
more or less, in the mountain of air separating us. 
Wise words slipped from my mouth like indigo birds 
   
into the caries-colored early evening, supported by 
nothing I could draw on from reality. In the end, 
   
this poem will rise and fall on the relative success 
of what I should have said, known, thought, or taught. 
   
Before. Instead things fall apart as I grasp her 
by the forearm, press the brachial artery and try 
   
to ignore her pleading, I just want to die, then Daddy, 
then Daddy again. When all the bad things happen 
   
in the world, someone told me once, God's heart is the first 
to crack, but no one, no thing breaks our silent lock. 
   
I hold her in my arms; my hand fills with her blood. 
Her pale face a giant tear. Her blood sauna-warm. 
   
I wish I could say something shifted in me too. 
But I just wanted my daughter to be well enough 
   
to someday peek at me over the edge of a book 
and smile. 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Amy Holman

My mother made herself the deer with a broken leg 
We saw a deer through the pane into someone else’s yard. The leg moved like a tube sock pinned to the hip  and half filled with sticks. I did not like to see it suffer,
either. She was upset —my mother —that no one helped  the doe. Was it a mother, too? As if we were the first to observe the scene. We weren’t. All had been told to
let her be. My mother had suffered a destruction  of the self, a divorce, and no one cared. That wasn’t true.  We were grown, on our own. I agree it was hard. Yet 
in those moments of a cold November day, we watched  a doe, disabled and enduring, walk across a yard and eat  a hedge. I wish she could have seen it like that.
Amy Holman is the author of the collection, Wrens Fly Through This Opened Window (Somondoco Press, 2010) and four chapbooks, including the prizewinning Wait for Me, I’m Gone (Dream Horse Press, 2005). Recent poems have been in or accepted by Blueline, concis, Gargoyle, The Westchester Revie…

Updates

Hi all. As you can tell, things have been quiet around here in the last six months. Heather and I have had the most exciting of lives--he said sarcastically--which has  hindered progress, let's say. We haven't gotten many submissions either, as I think poets assumed the market died. Nope. Still alive, just coming out of a lull. Look for more frequent updates going forward, as we expand back into poetry news and links from around the web as well as original poems from the small cadre of writers who follow us.

Priority list for LNP:
outreach (finding new poets for us to publish)interviews with small press poets and editorscurating poetry news (send your news to our email or PM us on social media)updating the Paul Blackburn page. You can follow my Black Mountain Poets obsession as I read my way through Blackburn's letters to Julio Cortazar, published last year by Lost & Found: The CUNY's Poetics Document Initiative. writing on Joel Oppenheimer, Black Mountain poet and …

June Poem Reviews

I've had fiction and non-fiction reviews published in quite a few journals and have been a member of the National Book Critics Circle, when I could afford it. Therefore, I feel quasi-professional in those arenas. I don't necessarily feel that way about my poetry reviews. I have opinions, though, and in the interest of keeping my poetry-mind occupied during an otherwise stressful time in my life, I'd like to make you, the poetry world, an offer. If you mail me your chapbook or book--at least 24 pages but no more than 100 pages, self-published or traditional--I will post a review of between 150 and 300 words about it, as professionally as I can, in the following months. Promise. Mail me your book, get a review. Easy. If I get a huge response, I'll declare a cap and communicate it here. I would prefer to work from print copies. I hate reading poetry in PDF or MOBI--my preferred methods for prose--because the lines never break correctly and I find myself critiquing lineati…