by Donora A. Rihn

 

You warned me. Here in our outpost at the end of the Earth, before we had to build a new one. There were too many for me to count, too many mouths feeding off of you. One had lost all feeling from the waist down, and you felt responsible. Nights I came to bed smelling of cinnamon and roses, and still you would not hold me. I kept faithful to the lights outside, heavy with rain, gravity. Later, around the fire, you asked if we could leave this place. To that I was never not saying yes, never not letting your face burn at my center, the world, the world.

 

 

Donora A. Rihn is the author (as Donora Hillard) of Jeff Bridges (Cobalt Press, 2016), The Plagiarist (NEA, 2015), The Aphasia Poems (S▲L, 2014), and other works of hybrid text, poetry, and theory. Her work appears in Hint Fiction (W.W. Norton & Company), Pedagogy, Women in Clothes (Penguin), and elsewhere. She is a senior lecturer at The University of Akron and lives in a tiny house in the Portage Lakes area with her husband, the writer Andrew Rihn, and their two rescue dogs.

 

 

Advertisements