ELISABETH MURAWSKI

As I Remember It

The door made no sound, opening.

The floor creaked, old sailing ship.

Cold from the waist down.

Arms pinned, in my own kingdom.

The busy signal of the lamb.

The reek of whiskey.

The spot like a birthmark.

Close enough to bite me.

The sordid joy of the doughboy.

A flight to the window in my head.

The root’s scald.

The infernal betrothal.