This is the Sestina written by the girl whose hands at the time held a dark menstrual smell at night during the summer under the hot honey suckle smell of Cincinnati in a state seamed by a river the color of watery coffee that smells like mud in a country made out of people who speak in bright declarative sentences underlit by a brittle hope in a world that is mostly made out of salty water and the sounds of people speaking in a circling weaving cacophony in a silent universe made out of space and gashes of fire.
the sestina
Francis Rose's grief
Francis Rose's letters to God from
when she was:
[14]
[14]
[15]
[15]
[16]
[16]
[16]
[17]
[17]
[18]
[18]
[18]
[20]
[21]
[21]
[22]
rain and frying meat
old corsages and underpants
It is snowing
people with soft lives want timethe sestina
the sestina's introduction
brittle, cluttered sentences
airplanes are not angels
people talk in fluttering prayers
please don't be a mirror
thin webbing
sodder the minutes together
fields torn off of a green sun
the sky burns with stars
Tractus Love-cannibalism
Francis Rose's sweater drawer