9

Gyre

Unable to move,
I lie here.
Flung against
a jagged scab of pavement.

The Hush slouches over,
sinks her poison claws into my esophagus
wrenching shut the heavy thud of words.

Gasp in asbestos air,
pulverized marble, and the stench

of the searing, searing, searing

into my memory
wraiths snaking from the smoke --
living corpses
embalmed in charcoal grime.

No one stops to question.

by Amanda Addison

Amanda Addison works at a library in the bowels of North Georgia and is a single mom to her kick ass seven-year-old daughter, Hope. When she isn't reading--which she usually is--you can find her tangled in yarn, or musing over the art of Hieronymus Bosch, or drinking mass quantities of coffee. She also suffers from an unhealthy obsession with Sylvia Plath.