Hazel Smith
The decision
Her back is want-stalling but she pickswings her way through plural
possibilities. Steps without treading: the morning lemons and dilates. Her
whispering-bed gestates her to the wince of the wish-fountain. Curtains
flower-flounder: forms stumbling into mirror-maps. It’s what she wants but
all her wants still swap and swamp. One voice plead-pleasures louder than
the others. But they are standing in a ring-a-round shaking their gunfires and
goldfish. Hands are full of know-unknow: the law of alien rudders.Then it’s pitch-night and the envoy bares his answer-sack. Final and
forensic. The clock buys sighs: its reason-rape. Her thoughts are gagged: test
without trial. She must breath-bear the wind and take a side stride while the
stand-by dice are stinging. But a number ghost-forgotten screams and
scythes a base. It’s done. She has station-switched, ignited and arrived.