Serena M. Wilcox, July 2013


Slowly, you pass your gaze in the mirror.

The bedroom walls behind you no longer

wear white. You remember dancing for your

dad, his hands folded into a triangle. Your

mother watched from the corner. Waiting

means something is being groomed. Lambs

know what it means to be married to silence;

what it means to be comforted with the stealth

of a lover’s kiss while breaking your hymen.

Failure feels like watching evening clouds

burn the rim of what we believe is unreachable.

They swim and move as flames playing through

a cold night. The eyes, exhausted, prohibits the lids

their shutter lest you miss something again.




I live with the knowledge

of fear and trembling, trembling
is what I do when close to the earth
which is my husband

I make a home in the slums

by his side, his eyes partially
open meet mine and his luminous
stare leaves ears of light pressed
again the pillow
My Othello slept without arms tonight
Could this mean I am changing?
Is there mystery in sleeping nude
next to a man with a delicate history

These are the questions of January,

the season of ice and want where everything
I touch feels like fire








I remember standing

in the kitchen watching

a sheet of clouds

hang over the horizon

like the last breath

of a troubled soul

a qualm was present


and then…

rain began to march

through the room

reminding me of hard

things like how colors

meet in a Rothko or

how you could smile

at me still wearing her

scent in my presence




Promote. Poetry.
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