Fall 2012 • Vol. XXXIV No. 4 PoetryOctober 1, 2012 |

Dancing with the Doctor

If I when you are sleeping and the landlady downstairs her ashy dog are sleeping and the train that brought me home is a wolf-black breath panting back into coarse marshlands along the coast,— if I in our dining room dressless dance, wheezily singing so not even our infestation of moths can hear: "I will never be daughter of the maple tree! I will never be sister of the leaf!" If I admire my hairless shins and the purple gloss of my polished fingernails running over them in the light cast by the street's mechanical moon,—who shall say I am not the woman who says with her mouth at your neck: "Love, when I told you my wilderness was almost wild, it meant I hadn't loved a man like a man yet."

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Cecily Parks is the author of the chapbook Cold Work (Poetry Society of America, 2005) and the collection Field Folly Snow (University of Georgia Press, 2008), which was a finalist for the Norma Farber First Book Award and the Glasgow / Shenandoah Emerging Writers Prize. In 2011 she earned a PhD in English from the CUNY Graduate Center, where she wrote a dissertation on American women writers and swamps. She lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

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Hurricane Song

By Cecily Parks

If I when you are sleeping and the landlady downstairs her ashy dog are sleeping and the train that brought me home is a wolf-black breath panting back into coarse […]

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