Oct/Nov 2007 Poetry Special Feature

The heart stops momentarily

by Arlene Ang

The heart stops momentarily

and grass bends to accommodate
the body's weight. A blue umbrella skips

away, like a sailboat ripped from
its anchor. The eyes fill up on rain,

tiny insects, and become transparent.
What is the feeling now of the wrist twitching

beneath the clasp of this amethyst
bracelet? Once blown off skin, clothes

have no memory of wholeness.
In an interview, the woman who got struck

by lightning twice admitted
she never had any premonition of living.

Overhead, the birds are excited by
the sight of earthworms surfacing the soil.


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