"The taste of hydrogen wild on my lips..."
More Perihelion:
Bob Sward's Writer's Friendship Series
A quick list to poets featured in this issue:
Fear of Flying
Snow is a comet stretched over the grass. I fly faster than a meteorite,
through the last layer of atmosphere, smelling of iron and burning hair. The
taste of hydrogen wild on my lips, I see every tree leafing out--- like every
hand in Miss Kleinbard's history class, Boxboro Massachusetts, raised at
once. The slinky stem of longing grows through the thickest compost. Snow
flurries warm me: I string garlands of flakes, the most intricate at my throat
never melt. Next week, sleet will turn to rain, and I will shiver like a dog in
ecstasy, whir like a grieving bee. Meanwhile, the caterpillars whisper, Dos
Vidanya, dos vidanya, Goodbye, goodbye, and spin shrouds in the trees.
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