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Christien Gholson - The Sixth Sense

Selections from The Sixth Sense by Christien Gholson


Your voice.  I want to hear
your voice.  I have been singing
for years.  Now, suddenly I want
to learn how to sing.  To bring in
the crows, the black laugh that almost
fills the hole; a back dock, pallets of boxes;
finger to finger when a bus transfer
is passed off to a complete stranger; sun and winter dust
against glass, an opaque mirror; Indonesian prisons
inside computers inside webs of economic thought
inside boxes on a dock.  Can you hear it?  March snow, sparse,
flying vertical, because the crows have channeled the wind.
Wake up!  Someone has his hand on your throat.
The sway of sea-grass; the Venusian
gesture of a praying mantis, turning
swollen eyes; snow become too heavy,
sliding into the sky; the sun through waves
resonating off rock; green lichen
drawing circles on pelvic stone; a saxophone
in the dark, behind a black gass station: Song
like coal rubbed beneath the eyes
to keep out the glare of fire
reflected off steel.  Everything
is falling like water from the black mouth
of a deer, lifting its head
to listen.

Lilliput Review
Don Wentworth, Editor
282 Main Street
Pittsburgh, PA  15201