He was getting one fuck of a headache.
For a moment he thought she was going to say no more;
even allowed himself to hope this was so.
Her voice was cold and stern at once.
So cold, in fact, that it frightened him a little.
He kept forgetting that she could run rings around him,
had always been able to, always would.
‘I’m not in any trouble!’ he said indignantly, after last night’s revel with B— and his fiancée and this oral hygienist the fiancée knew, a nice girl from the Bronx, you’ll love her, great sense of humour.
Yeah. Just turn tail and run. Good idea. Praise God.
So he went down to the men’s room and washed the blood off.
(a cento from Stephen King's The Stand)
Cathleen Allyn Conway is a PhD creative writing research student at Goldsmiths College, University of London. She is the co-editor of Plath Profiles, the only academic journal dedicated to the work of Sylvia Plath, and the founder and co-editor of women’s protest poetry magazine Thank You For Swallowing. Her work has appeared in The Mary Sue, Bitch, the Guardian; in print, online and in anthologies. Her pamphlet Static Cling was published by Dancing Girl Press in 2012. Originally from Chicago, she lives in south London with her partner and son. You may follow her intermittent feminist ranting and retweets at @mllekitty.
It continues to snow dust.
The sun comes out of the closet.
Jays enter under the door
jumping over a line of air.
Maybe it was just the light,
cracked somewhere, leaked out,
lucky—I thought you shifted away
in voice, my mouth to hear,
My senses are a cushion, and yet this horror appears to taste my morrow. My alarms are useless because they are on fire with the rest of my home.
Be honest now—
just for a minute; I cried.
I had him locked out—
a perfectly good wish.
Privately, for over a year now you drove off and left me.
The place cooled down beaming and bright—
put my name on a silencer (it’s not the end of the world).
In the mirror, the wooden bust of Christ Nicodemus carved
and Joseph commended to the sea, stares out for reflection.
Only a true spell
of fittingly glamorous phenomena
repaired sunstruck imagination—
Too big for your body, the whale of a bed will go on sale; also the dresser, its
three-linked mirrors tall as sails.
The Nazis are back in town.
No, I know. They never, ever left.