At night, the dead: 

 

 

I move but for where I am pinned; hollow pin

a tunnel through the body

& into the ground; a tunnel
is to take you down into the earth;

this tunnel is all corridor, corridor,

hole we drilled to talk through; black circle
in black rock, black circle

with teeth inside; black
rim of the vase with linseed inside; oil alight;

day in the vase when we want it so;

the reflection
shakes on the surface; the dead

remember;
yea & it is not enough:

the sun trembles.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lisa Ciccarello recently received her MFA from the University of Arizona where she was a poetry editor at the Sonora Review. She now lives the writing life in Portland, OR. She is really more of a reptile kind of girl.