|
GIBSON FAY-LEBLANC
Ventriloquist on the Moor
after Klee
The ladder in his throat
rungless, greased. His voices—
unformed whimpers now—
fester in his ears. He wanders
in a fog that stinks with wound—
wort and wonders how long
his body will last when he lies
down in the peat. Will he
decay once for each of them
or become bones in days—
organs proving empty
but for the voices’ carrion
inside his lungs? His lips
splinter. His chest clatters.
His heart is not his own. 
Contributor’s
notes
Inspiration
Ventriloquist on an Off Day
|
