In·ter·punct shares book reviews, art news, lit theory and daily musings from the intimate lives of writers. It seeks to highlight, in an edgy and sprightly fashion, the poetic moments that punctuate our lives.
A riding hood floats
Finds feet and knees below
The green-blue ice and waves of Niagara.
She stood alone
Washing wounds in whirlpools
Of disappointment and embarrassment,
Washing wounds torn through pale skin
Pooling beneath the cape as storms,
Slipping through fingertips to settle quietly atop the surface as petals,
Finding glass amidst the roar. She reaches in fervent attempt
To salvage that she has lost through laceration.
Beastly and maimed, she was left
By the very mouth that reminded her to breathe.
Still plucking teeth to skip over Ontario,
The age-old resuscitation from the breath of familiar voice,
Of repeat offenders
Lost among the shouts of the current.
As I drive I see her silhouette
And I can feel it in the well of my driver’s side seat:
The raggedly breathy exhaust
And flows of understanding
Through frozen feet.
In·ter·punct shares interviews, expositions, poems and daily musings from the intimate lives of writers. Like the interpunct, which is a middot used to separate syllables, this blog seeks to highlight, in an edgy and sprightly fashion, the poetic moments that punctuate our lives.