June 26, 2007


Some lines seem destined for the nearest landfill
—the way my name, when I type the wrong keys,
becomes “Ant.” I feel like an ant these days,
lugging my giant crumb to some great sand-hill,
dumping it, and trudging off for more.
I wonder where my good old-fashioned brain went?
It didn’t fit my head, like the attachment
I bought second-hand for my vacuum cleaner.

You can’t do much good with a bad connection—
part A fits into part B, no exceptions,
or you’re screwed. There’s no great adapter
to plug into, turn on the juice, the power
and the glory. Forever and ever, we survive,
trying dead sockets till something sparks alive.

—Amy Lemmon
previously published on ZinkZine, an online literary magazine.

Posted by dwaber at 12:44 PM

June 25, 2007




If you are reading this


it is due to an error,


an oversight, or some otherwise


unprecedented act on the part


of the Management.

blame it on the Moon

Do not be alarmed if


you hear a voice you are not accustomed to,


or if mention is made of subjects

embarrassing nipples

out of your ordinary purview,

“those stubborn bloodstains”

or if unfamiliar territory is mapped


intricately and with candor.

that Moon, she brings—

Comfort yourself with the fact that

if not blood, then at least—

you will soon be returned


to your regularly scheduled programming,

“sorry, sorry, sorry”

with the requisite words from Our Sponsor.



Unless, of course, you prefer


To follow me away to the roof

hair curled to frame the face

to watch the white disk turn two-thirds

Lillian Gish on film, 1915

mottled sepia, then charcoal, then black,


then shyly bare her sharp white face entire.



—Amy Lemmon


previously published in Prairie Schooner

Posted by dwaber at 11:44 AM