Locus
Vestigial, this
night, this desire. A sole
conjunction remains, suggests a
pivot point. Not like coordinates
on a map. But maybe in space, maybe
like fulcrum and lever, — the difference
in location being something like intersection
versus collision. In the darkened room I can just
about make out the blue smolder of teeth. Your smile,
a splintering of husk and hull, ripping through a body
like a bullet. Your hands, palms-up, flexed into
a canvas of skin like an open-faced journal,
distinctly blank: nodding, nodding,
nodding me on. Bleached &
bound fibers of rare desire.
The pages demanding
a lit fuse.
Suzanne Rindell originally hails from Northern California, but is currently working toward her Ph.D. in English literature at Rice University. Recent and upcoming fiction and poetry publications include Crab Orchard Review, Nimrod, StorySouth, The Texas Review, Convergence, Sulphur River Literary Review, The Georgetown Review, The Absinthe Literary Review, Whistling Shade, and others. (suzannerindell@hotmail.com).