Sunday, January 25, 2009
for Sina Queyras
I have a tooth, a tooth far back in my mouth, that is Hitler’s gun. It is a mirror. I can lick the moon without looking, take a bath in Hitler’s bath.
A breath in the cold air from the mirror’s barrel: a small tree or the pert antlers of grandmother, lost in forest.
I have a tooth, a tooth far back in my mouth, that is Hitler’s.
A mark on my thigh where the mirror waits. A curl of smoke from the lung, a shroud of the mouth.
Sina Queyras over at Lemon Hound posted a short prose piece and then, in the following post discussed its sources. Both the original piece and the subsequent discussion inspired my short text posted above.