Kristin Abraham

Echo

 

The sadness of his surface

made pockmarks, sweat sheen.

 

And then they were in the dark:

there is no twilight in caves.

 

                        He was moving in the grass—

 

They were falling face-first into everywhere.

 

                        Texture-hungry—

 

Her laugh like sparks, a grinding

saw, fear-look:

 

He wanted to curl up against it,

fetal and grasping.

 

                        Steam engine—

 

But the cave was singing

as she used to at night, a scared child.

 

                        Knitting a shriek—

 

It wanted someone to answer back.

He was a braided tongue.

 

 

Studies for the Sound of Self

Kristin Abraham: Bio

 

Other Featured Artists

 

 

 


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