Sharon Zetter

June 27, 2009

/Wrinkle                                                                        Glass/

She belly, I distend                                                      a cursed jar

Distance as the mirror                                               pickle juice to the floor

Large & X-Large                                                          she placed notice on time

Where is between the margin?                                whose hem wet in brine?

She barely button-up, I the red cardigan               I a-cry, she come run

She mock-turtle, stuck                                               no’d & “known”

Three ways too late                                                     fancy-floor of waste

I shame-shame-shame                                              she bent then

Her body lent to a walker                                          not a thought for the pain



/winter 2009/                                                             /Purim   1985/

/Fall                                                                                Saturn/

I wager with the trees only                                       before she flushed

What we cannot afford                                              he sent for his pork-chops—pink

Caviar and beans                                                        tripped on gristle-bone

I black bats in construction                                      her lap-napkin hid with pig-muscle

Press paper lanterns for poems                               later: she & I

Again, the disposal’s gone missing                        our bodies hung in the carpet-womb

To arrange a costume around a cleavage?            and whose skin am i to crush?

My recline to any holiday                                          he rode the ring

Continually wading for a season                             radio tuned to fire

/Hallow’s Eve 2008/                                                 /waxing   1988-89/

sorrel.jpg

Sharon Zetter writes words between co-editing the journals Retired Unicorn and MARY, book binding, and battling with paint and yarn. She is currently working on building a dacha, possibly made of straw, with five other humans. Documentation of their exploits can be found at dachaproject.com. Her poems have found home in Hanging Loose, Slipstream, Ink Node, Soft Skull and Blood Pudding Press.

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