Yes I let the prince do that
Yes
& 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
©
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.
