Posted inUncategorized

found and vicious

Posted by By

The poems are not writing themselves they are writing me some deep river in me an electric cord a space heater too close to the tub they are tightening the spring in me the jack in the box held under the pasture pond its hideous face growing slack no more sick surprise no more finder’s keepers one potato two potato there were never enough closets to hide in the old shack behind the barn is missing the old piano is breaking down I cannot locate the seam on its belly I cannot find the cord to pull it free the cow’s sack is swollen to bursting her yowls hurt my ears I cannot unremember it I cannot find my footing I cannot reflesh the fossils of the house the years will not unwind there is no resetting the unseated gods the hearth has gone to ashes ghosts are gathering thickly now these poems are not poems they are claws scuttling across the nursery floor a tight pinpoint of girl is dilating slowly.


Rebecca Cook lives in Chattanooga, TN. She grew up in North Georgia on a farm in Wood Station. She is a writer and visual artist, a writing teacher, an editor, and she has been known to preach in her local church, Grace Episcopal. She is a mom, a wife, and a homemaker/cook at present as she no longer works outside the home. She took her MA in English Literature (UTC), her MA in Rhetoric and Writing (UTC), and MFA in Creative Writing,--poetry, creative nonfiction, (Vermont College). She has published prose and poetry widely across the internet and in print magazines and journals.
View All Posts