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Your Door
Wires thin as your fingers-- that’s the pith,
the bones that sun will clean to whiter than the paint that covers
the waves that wind the copper--
use last year’s mail slot
to enter the house
you’ve never left,
and your hot water leans
against your door
to
carry your showers inside.
You haven’t set the wood beneath aside
since the night
she said she’d left.
Aubade (Revelation)
Morning has bruised your cheeks
with last night’s mystery-- your
smoked-out eyes--
and I watch the capillaries in the whites
to breathe in time
with your heart,
my thrift-store beauty.
Edge of the Tracks
All you smell are shapes in wire
that can’t protect you from the train
that never passes anymore
but only from the gravel that settled in between its boards
and calls your ear to ground.
Elizabeth Kate Switaj's writing has appeared in several small press journals and e-zines,
inlcuding The Iconoclast, spooncore, Seeking The Lotus, Eratio,
Diagram, Electric Yeti, and Tin Lustre Mobile. She completed her BA in
1999 at The Evergreen State College and her MFA at New College of
California in 2003. Currently, she resides in Anjo City in Japan's Aichi
Prefecture.
Email: Elizabeth Kate Switaj
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