Ammunition (Rapunzel)

posted Jul 23, 2013

Yes I let the prince do that


& I did not become anything:
          the moment, like any other moment, swaddled in cotton, noiseless & pauseless, impossible to extract & examine by itself as a clean specimen of          of?     pain, whatever house those four letters build

He gave a wound to reason
I built a little gun out of that reason
Witch come here Witch I'll shoot you
but without words:

          one of the gifts his taking gave me was the futility of language,
                    the always-victory of mass,
                              an easy way to go under,

to live in that small quiet place inside gasp      to home it

Ruth Baumann is an MFA student at the University of Memphis, and Assistant Poetry Editor of The Pinch. Her poems are published or forthcoming in PANK, Kill Author, elimae, Eclectica & Mixed Fruit literary journal, amongst places.

Baumann’s poem “Love Song #10” also appears in this issue.