This woman is a cloud reflected in her tea but hopes soon to be born into another, higher cloud. Still, it is better to be a cloud in her tea than be a woman waiting inside her own hot veins here at this kitchen table. So careful not to disturb her tea. No, please let me be a cloud high up and wait for another to join.
But there are voices, shrill and shouting, full of rattles and roars, demanding of her. Money and meals and dirt, so many voices, so many demands they tear the cloud in the teacup into ragged edges if she would answer even one of them. No. She closes her eyes until the voices stop, tired of daylight.
A cloud falls asleep into her and she forgets to wake and fly. No, instead she finds herself trapped once more inside her veins buzzing with their own demands, always hungry. Why can’t she wake into a high cloud and rain down on the land? Why can’t she find a cloud in her tea sleeping, no color at all or many, in the way of a cloud allowing her to join it? No, but at least its reflection stays for her waking.
--Richard Pearse
Nora Almeida: Integral #1 Integral #2 Integral #3
Richard Pearse: A Woman Cloud Young and Angry at the Moon
Olga Pester: the roof of merger refrigerator memo
Joe Robitaille: Oleo Strut Oligarchy Strychnine The Rest of Lamps
William Sanders: Easter Poem [another poem by W. Sanders (& another)]
Sarah Sarai: hAve You Been Married, the Sister asK
Pietro Scorsone: After Tomorrow Random 1-4
