I like your voice, drunk
fuzzing the 's', knitting 'th',
tongue blurring to teeth
Your map-inked lips
unspool the bottle,
its ancient blood dilating arteries
in the same glass
your bones were cut from.
To sip on mulled regret like this;
the aborted cells unite our hands
and fold all words into deep red brooks.
But the flesh must part again in poison,
to wake, fully clothed,
perched on the ledge
of memory's briefest window.
Great Yarmouth, England, 1984, Laura Brown has always
loved literature. Though she writes less than in her
unfortunately melodramatic adolescence, it seems as if poetry
and prose still chance on her for expression sometimes, rather
than vice versa.