"Bale of hay, almost made for a woman bent over."

More Perihelion:

Bob Sward's Writer's Friendship Series

Book Reviews

Need to Know



Issue 15: To The New

Issue 14: The Double Issue

Issue 13: Free Form

Issue 12: The Necessary Ear

Issue 11: The Necessary Eye

Issue 10: Out on a Limb

Issue 9: The Missing Body

Issue 8: The Lily

Issue 7: Passages

Issue 6: No More Tears

Louise Mathias


At first, I wouldn’t believe:

calla lilies dipped in pink, but only the tips,

like a small girls toes, like the bell-curve of crave.

How the clinking of teeth

tastes slightly of antique silver, of April in Denver.

Collared doves I watched in their cage.

How their color is buff, a low lying fog,

the uncertain shore of childhood. But the black

at their necks is so fixed.

Is the adult kohl at my eyes,

is your hair, mink sky around us,

wild & fixed.


Prone, November

Just your slow, pink movements near the doorway.

If there were fields, they'd long ago rolled back in agate bliss.

Until you were indelible, a dahlia.

Bale of hay, almost made for a woman bent over.

Her pale sweet hedging (which,

in certain landscapes,

is an early form of love. )

I want you slow: birds hover near my waist.

Not sleep in the distance but the mimeograph

of sleep.

Above all else, the trembling resembles a forest.


The Traps

Missy gets tied to the rafters.

She likes the lack of choices,

I’m afraid: one, solitary


per zipcode…

She dreams

she breastfeeds blood,

she dreams of faith.

What did you know about fire?

& where did the blind one put it?