I’m lying on the analyst’s couch, conjuring a somatic scene. We’re moving through an articulated midnight, spangled with symbolic splendor. Between the two of us, my body is wax. The water of my memory dripped onto the rug. It was a gift, this talking body, this moist performance, under the veil of metaphor. What occurs on the purely neural level? Another kind of melting, an alternate embodiment.
A Circle of Pensive Wolves
At the cemetery, a pack of wolves sat tamely at the outskirts of the mourners. What the wolves smelled or knew no human voice could say. The first hypothesis was that something within drew them to the casket. They leapt in, one after another.
A flood nearly washed the city from its foundation. When the water receded, an engineering corps surveyed the topology of the county. It was concluded that when the river rose again, a network of sluices could divert the water to an inland basin. Yet, the cost of construction would entail colossal debt.
Matthew Kirshman lives in Seattle, Washington with his wife and two daughters. He is an English teacher, but before that had a varied career–telephone repairman, bartender, and cook, to name a few. Writing since the early 1980s, his publication credits include: Altpoetics, Annapurna Magazine, The Bacon Review, Charter Oak Poets, Dirigible: Journal of Language Arts, Futures Trading, Helix, Indefinite Space, Key Satch(el), Phoebe: The George Mason Review, posthumous papers (NothingNew Press), Vangarde Magazine, Xenarts, The Wayfarer, Wilderness House Literary Review, and Z-Composition.