kristi maxwellnerve_bios_1.html


Hold the light up to me like something small, she said.

Rinds were slippery beneath his fingers and his fingernails

slipped in.  His concern was the white tent tooth-like at the back

of the farm his arm could obliterate if lifted near

to his eyes as the smallness she wanted.  The telescope was his favorite form

of aggression, or the bag game.  How she reached in and the air

didn’t feel remarkable, despite his insistence she mark

her findings with the little pen which of them uncapped.


The day of the experiment, they had not bathed.

He brought the equation out and sat it like birthday cake

onto the bench.  The anthem, the way knobs to the right

heat, was prepared.  They sang it over lunch: loose packets of amen—

a fuse not to be refused, a fuse not to be…& so on.

It wasn’t a very good hymn—nonetheless they ducked on high

notes, like something were going off

above them.  Debris flaked off their tongues.


He stole boxes off their packed things.  Her disapproval

didn’t take.  In a bonfire that looked like a glass

when he stood over it and looked down

is where he stashed them.  It was his third sculpture

called The Detriment of Ice.  The forecast of rain

pained her for that.  He renamed it

Our Hyphen Jealousies

in scorn of their gloves. 

She did not approve for different reasons,

though of different reasons

she was fine with.


A thermos boasted its contents—and she liked that enough

to mimic with her blouse.  He called his thirst

into question.  He pulled the comfy bed from the comfortable couch

his reclining broke the hierarchy between.  If they had a pool

they agreed to understand one another underwater for a length of time

measured by what sun can do to skin

instead of the other option. She brought a bird home

that handed its beak over like an ingredient.  They passed

the bird between them and read passages that sounded like wings

in turn.

It gives me great pleasure to welcome ann fine to La Fovea!ann_fine.html