The Poetry of Karla Huston | ||
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NIGHTMARE | ||
Washing my daughter's jeans today,
I think about the family whose daughter disappeared last fall. They guess she is dead, but hope she has amnesia somewhere in another city. Maybe the girl forgot herself, became a waitress, a bus driver, a fisherman. Some say God is a fisherman, and we are his catch, a school of worship clotted in his throat. Maybe believing this is more comforting than being pulled inside out, taken into that green and luminous cave, raw core of Pisces pinned to a plank. Maybe the girl isn't really lost. Maybe she went along willingly, thinking she might be saved. |
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Previously published in the Southern Poetry Review, Steam Ticket and the chapbook: Flight Patterns, winner of the 2003 Main Street Rag Chapbook Contest, 2003.
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