Language as troika,
drag, kitchen rag.
Worth as defined,
in wifedom, by the 4 C's
on your bloody solitaire.
Grind my bones to dust
with mortar and pestle, Lord,
but I'll, prone like Lazarus,
only rise, rise, rise.
Intrusion, occlusion.
What have I learned
in the liminal world?
Ten thousand allegories
and not one of them mine.
©
is the author of Vox Populi, and a collection of short stories, Anatomical Gift (forthcoming, Noctuary Press), Virginia Konchan's poems have appeared in The New Yorker, Best New Poets, The Believer, The New Republic, and Verse. Co-founder of Matter, a journal of poetry and political commentary, she lives in Montreal.
We’ve published two more poems by Konchan: “Venus Anadyomene” and “Cemetery Montparnasse.”
