1,000 WORDS FOR SNOW
can be nothing but a cliche,
their necks and waists
pared down to a commonality.
They are becoming feral and angelic,
Fur springing from their forearms and upper lips,
Cheerleaders with yellow and navy polyester croptops
revealing an emptiness,
like blond rain,
more giving up the scalp for the pillow
The scent of vomit, bleach and strawberry
coalesces in front of them like
Skywriting bargaining with God, the body.
Their eyes burning like stomach acid
Their mouths drooling uncontrollably at the refrigerator light.
They are reducing
To satin bows around necks, the texture
of new teddy bear fur, and
curling into an earlier and earlier knot,
Recapitulating into a
A wishbone of endless white ice,
or vast vanilla ice cream.
They are returning to something everyone remembers
But cannot say.
They are ivory novices in an abbey
with blood colored shadows,
prostrating themselves before
Before it happened
before the ever slower
beating organ, praying
for the final reversal of miracle.
And in their ears they always hear
the tinny ringing --
A scratchy voice from a swollen
of the snow-white
beauty of bones.
Besides being a poet, Christine also writes contemporary art criticism. Her writing has been appeared in The Little Literary Review, NY Metropolis, She-net.com, Ennuimagazine.com, Hersalon.com, Bluffmag.com, Cleansheets.com, Suite101, and has been featured at the Babes in Toyland web site.