by Audrey Walls

The red can of gasoline beneath the porch,
the dewclaw of the cat, suddenly

swiped. The knife’s blade facing outward
on the table edge, the fiddleback

spider in broom closet corner. Waking to
your hands (where are your hands?)

wandering up the split of my thighs, a swing
in the playground, rust-covered &

singing. An open wound. The slight saucer
of a poppy. The house’s uneven sigh.

AUDREY WALLS’ poetry appears or is forthcoming in Controlled Burn, The Louisiana Review, Mason’s Road, The Monongahela Review, and Naugatuck River Review. She was awarded the 2011 Arts Club of Washington Scholarship for Student Poets and the Poetry Society of Virginia’s 2011 Frank Craddock Memorial Prize. She lives in Richmond, VA, and is an MFA candidate at Virginia Commonwealth University.