Lucia Perillo
Earth, that old insomniac, rolls over one more time.
We wake, and for the first time in months
the sunlight's not a dagger in my eye.
Your hand goes to your brow and feel the skin
not damp from nightmares. I move my legs
and feel the irons loosening around my chest.
Forty million feet below these boxes
called our ribs, Chinamen and women dance
inside death houses, where they beg
the gods to carry off the not-quite-ready.
"if you don't die soon," they pray,
"your good dinner will grow cold."
But here and now our bones
are not surrendering their ghosts, though the cries
that float above the bed sound hurt
and haunted. Everything still works!--my spine
arching in your hands until it drops, spirits
pouring from my mouth but not escaping.
In the death house at sunrise, relatives
have passed out on the littered floor, while the corpse
still rolls her eyes inside her head. My legs
move. You raise your hand to your brow.
Tables of Content
Seventeen (Fall 2003)
Sixteen (Spring 2003)
Fifteen (Fall 2002) Fourteen (Spring 2002)
Thirteen
(Fall 2001) Twelve (Spring 2001)
Eleven (Fall 2000)
Ten (Spring 2000)
Nine (Fall 1999) Eight (Spring 1999)
Seven, (Fall 1998) Six, (Spring 1998)
Five (Fall 1997) Four (Winter/Spring 1997)
Three (Summer/Fall 1996) Two (Winter 1996)