Issue Three

Spring 2012


Thinking about the Aftermath of a Bomb


The egg hurled in the dark
explodes on the window, a blind firecracker.

Curtains open to a starburst
clouded by sun. The fluids have set
and resist the application of hot soapy water,
their posthumous baptism.
Some bits are hard to find—
smears of albumen flung sideways,
or yellow drops under the bar of the sash.

The empty milk bottle bounces
once like a ghost
off the kitchen tiles, and shatters.

Splinters of glass appear weeks later
in places that have been swept and reswept.

The wine spilt across the table
trickles down to the floor
and forms a small black pool

whose shadow
nothing will eradicate.




Fiona Moore

carved stone

peacock fractal