Rebecca Loudon



the sisters of perverse desire
were right after all this is it they warn
her on the telephone a threat low and forgotten
pricked with broken tooth pain at the mention of his
name his name in the bath his name in the elevat          or
his name breathing breathing breathing in her blue
in her blue sheets seed on the floor of the car
run off the road into the tree lake careen
tragic animal snort the splayed wind
shield locked swallow swallow
he knows how night curls
her claw under
his tender


The White Orchard

You said sheath, a short story,
a boy frozen in a lake. You said builds
a fire, takes off her clothes, reads to him.
It was simply a misunderstanding.
You meant protein, effervescent.

I poked holes in the ice with a blade
of grass, carried an axe, an empty pickle
jar. His eyes were open. His mouth formed
the word prune. He might have been
whistling. He wore corrective shoes.

You said sheath, I heard tissue, flesh
envelope, champagne cocktail dress.
There was a war room, and trout bent
in pale green reeds, a kind of sickness
like sleeping pills or barnacles.

You said sheath, and I heard a tubular fold
of skin, a condom, a dog's penis retreating.
I covered him with linen napkins.
My mistake.

past simple home