Veronica Golos

Issue #
September 6, 2013


I can’t seem to collect
all that needs collecting: medical reports,
x-rays, the fill-in-the-blanks, bills,

pathology–in spiraling piles, the morning just begun.
              In the garden–the hollyhocks
              swoon–a red hibiscus
              swells. I shut my eyes and write over

the page, on to the desk, floor, the white of the wall. I
understand how a woman

might not know
what feeling safe
feels like. Might yearn for arms

to enfold, someone to shut
up the beehive terror that always sounds
the same, is always just

behind her. Sometimes a woman’s perfume can knock you
off your feet, back you into a corner, make you


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