Think about desire.
A knife dropped down from the top of the ladder;
we called it irony.
The cut on my scalp turned a clump of my hair pink.
A fingerprint, dried brown blood, stamped
the white coffee mug.
That look, stop it.
The weather wavered.
One bickers, one feels the need to always be right.
Four answers to the question is there a god:
clavicle, juniper, possibly, blossoms.
Beware the dingle, its leftward leaning light.
Do I feel like a fever?
The bruises on my legs, desire them.
To be scapular is to reach out.
I’d show you but I’m in a dress.
The chewing gum took some of the nausea away.
Is this loneliness?
Do you remember?
The footprints on the carpet—soot, black and persistent.
The horizon is a particular kind of mystery.
I had this idea to relate everything.
In the attic, the thunderstorm shook the rafters.
The whole house smelled like cedar.
You are very tall.
Rebecca Lehmann is originally from Wisconsin. Her poems have been published, or are forthcoming, in numerous journals, including Conduit, Denver Quarterly, the Iowa Review, and Tin House. She holds an MFA from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, has been a resident artist at the Millay Colony for the Arts, and is currently a PhD candidate specializing in poetry and literary theory at Florida State University.
“Particulate Matter” appears in our Winter 2010 issue.