Volume No. XVIII
Volume No. XVII
Volume No. XVI
Volume No. XV
Volume No. XIV
Volume No. XIII
Volume No. XII
Volume No. XI
Volume No. X
Volume No. IX
Volume No. VIII
Volume No. VII
Volume No. VI
Volume No. V
Volume No. IV
Volume No. III
Volume No. II
Volume No. I
Archives
Volume No. I
Volume No. II
Volume No. III
Volume No. IV
Volume No. V
Volume No. VI
Volume No. VII
Volume No. VIII
Volume No. IX
Volume No. X
Volume No. XI
Volume No. XII
Volume No. XIII
Volume No. XIV
Volume No. XV
Volume No. XVI
Volume No. XVII
Volume No. XVIII
Snow on the steeple tops. The young, tubercular Chopin with his time running thin. The skull shining through, irridescent. Archangels making house calls. White host elevated. My mother's fingers multiplying across ivory keys. In my throat the strangled singing of pale homesickened doves.
The color of music, the only color the stomach can tolerate. Rice, banana and milk, butter from Ireland, saltines. Starched cotton of hospital sheet, plastic bracelet circling my wrist, waivers to sign, coffee whitener clumped in water lukewarm.
The dissection of tendons going on at the medical school next door. Violins on the CD player, cat gut fastening. The small animal thumping, accidentally, though already pinned down.
Poland in winter. Nocturne in C minor, each note crystalline. Soldiers frozen in bundles. More souls immaculate, snowflakes six millionfold, lifting. Death will and cannot prevail.
Ann Emerson works as an analyst for the state of California.
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