Girl Interrupted At Her Music
She demurred, for what it’s worth.
Hounds outside the window tug & war
putters in a ditch somewhere. The dogs
wrench apart a muskrat carcass. Breath
reeking of garbage & clove cigarettes,
his kiss reminds her of the black attic
spider which sunk its teeth into her hand
until it swelled, hot & pink like the dusk
dipping behind purple hills. Tonight,
she’ll sneak quietly across the lawn
to the ridge, burrs on the way will cling
to her hem, honeysuckle, a warren to avoid,
but she’ll press forward. To hear music
you have to suck out the poisonous noise.
This poem was written as part of the 20 Poem Challenge.
JIM DAVIS is a student of Human Development and Psychology at Harvard University and has previously studied at Northwestern University and Knox College. He reads for TriQuarterly and his work has appeared in Bellevue Literary Review, The Harvard Crimson, Portland Review, Midwest Quarterly, and California Journal of Poetics, among others. In addition to writing and painting, Jim is an international semi-professional American football player. @JimDavisArt
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