I thought I had passed through the great red door of the elements.
Between us, there was a Seconal us, a lithograph, a meridian (noon).
What of throwing the door open, what of the broad arms that leave sororal fingerprints on
What of the walls themselves, then?
I am writing this as a mother would write to her sister, to her friend.
And yet I have not touched it, your mirror.
The man in the truck can see us both most days.
What of the bright prophet’s coat (the novel, the story of our town, the townies
themselves tracked like abacus beads)?
If you don’t understand yet, maybe one day you will.
Red zinnias make better companions than the other prophets with their facelifts and
My things-to-do-in-Providence dress is sutured to my legs.
I thought I had the glass in my hand, but it was tuckered around your pocket, where
the money is.
The fantasy’s answer is insufficient.
The books speak of it too.
Laura Carter is a writer living in Atlanta, GA, where she co-curates the Sun & Moon Poetry Reading Series. Recent work is forthcoming in Hambone.