S

I've closed my blinds
against it all week, what light
came through the rain.
Front door sweeps tea
petals dot my golden.
Flamelatch. Books every
which way on black.
The twitch.
The name called
quiet. 1920s wallpaper
closet. Vertical stacks,
blank blanks, thirty six photos not
one eye looking out. White
rabbit in the refuse trash can.
Lemon's overripe unharvest
branches low to faded
brick. I am I I I am she I am.
Standing up while typing. Parchment
blue. Red paintings kitten hand,
Numb cameras. The lost key
to the lock box. Hearing barbells.
Pennant slant. The note: to be killed
this way is quite all right with me.
Three twenty nine. Cat mouth
to cat throat.











Treat Street

Fog flying hills fast in morning,
dressing gown, fighting
the frigid, a wife's crisp
slick-trick, murky mirror.

Unspeaking hard in involuntary rhyme.

Lying in, Miss-Mary-Mack
black, silver buttons all down my throat
back. Lying all over in house. Un-
rewinding chords. I'm salving
cracks. Tapping the sap trap.
Tonguing the slack.

I've got a knack. Never coming

back

clack. Ragged thread, tacked.

Unbother bed. Mouse in your mouth
house. Hold tight. I'm saving
your wife, life.












Carrie-Sinclair Katz is a playwright, poet, and director originally from central New York and currently residing in San Francisco. Eight of her plays have been produced in London (at the Chelsea and Latchmere Theatre/Theatre 503), and her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in the Big Ugly Review, Comfusion Magazine, Fourteen Hills, Goetry, Transfer, Wild Strawberries, and others.




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