Winter Sick

Consider the kingdom of this dry, hot air: the castle
of the body, the long corridor of the throat– and you, the woman walking
toward the heavy iron door: halting, clutching the candle, throwing
the flames; oh, the long, heavy skirts, tapering to the cold stone, tapers
on the tapestries, firelight on woven faces, mouths forced open into o’s–
how many mad women lie in wait, how many mad women
are you? Blown up and shrunk, forcing your way down the hall of the body, the breath,
the trapped, stale air, the woman who holds the woman
who walks, the woman who waits, cackling, beyond the door’s closed mouth.

 

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About evanduyne

I'm assistant professor of writing at Stockton University, where I'm also affiliated faculty in the Women's, Gender, and Sexuality Studies program. I work on Sylvia Plath, contingent faculty, and creative writing around trauma and domestic violence.
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