Where I am is inevitable furnace. Elsewhere, whoever
directs stratum, silvers, exoskeletons. Anywhere I look closer
motes a spiderwork. The lie in dust or dew. Of half-notes
or grackles on wire. Sorrows accrue. Mildew means
we live. I have never been afraid of nothing. Absence makes
sleep, whereas body creases sheets. Devil down the hall stands
our hair on end. At night an accomplished whistler
cracks through the drone that song never written.
Where wordless, lost. Is this good? Is this disappearing?
one liest, to weave her meal three says:
no body saw and we won't tell. cochineal
crushed shell red, diest.
widow. riddle. the luck of one tangled in her silks.
it does take two.
crooked / fucked
deceive / relive
relief / bereaved
felt / left
adored / read
hard / heart
cold / reeled
liar / sure
promise / facile
love / leave
Paula Mendoza's work has appeared in Prelude, Bat City Review, Parcel, Washington Square, and elsewhere. She is the essay editor for The Offing, assistant poetry editor for Newfound | Art and Place, and a reviewer for SCOUT. She lives and writes in Denton, Texas.