Ellen Bihler





I listen for your tiny “eh, eh, eh”
over the radio sounds.

I wasn’t afraid yet. Just this
intensity and seeing

The bottle is heated, ready.

the leather jacket draped over the back
of the chair, carton of cigarettes

The warmth of your body
grows roots through my arms —

with one pack lying open,
a still life painted behind
rage, and the inevitability of hands,

the “muh, muh,” of your suck,

his breath on my face,

your eyes, three-quarter moons,

pupils dilated,

and time — how one interval grounds
me to the earth like moss —

and time — how one interval bloats
until its boundaries burst
like an exploding heart,

your hair against my neck, eiderdown.

and then your father let go
of my throat.

Copyright © 2004 Ellen Bihler.  All Rights Reserved.


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