Academic journal article Field


Academic journal article Field


Article excerpt

Apparently my house which wasn't my house was crumbling,

just like my real house is, in places. And under the ratty gold

carpet (which I would never tolerate), the floor was glass.

Somehow I stuck three fingers through a cut-through: waft

of cellar-air. Which room of me was that, to not go down into?

The answer came days later when my back went waffly

and lit a fire-strip down my right leg. I must need sistering,

like the rotten joists under the squeegee sub-floor under

the punky linoleum tiles under the toilet. Meantime the only

Valentine I got this year was an apology, and now here comes

that graying Scottie-dog and how much is left on my body's

mortgage? When the Mohawk dream a thing, they must do it.

Get baptized, go scalping. What about last week, the rifle shot

to the groin in of all places an elevator? …

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