Why Don’t You Tell Me How You Feel About It?

75 anna lowe Why Don’t You Tell Me HoW You Feel About It? Autumnal months, there is the urge to take some tender thing in my hands and crush it just to feel a pathetic surge of power over something. What is it, this need for entrails and yellow gut? Is my heart so sick, such a bad seed? I cook with apple pie spice, throw a little into every dish, savory and sweet. I rake leaves into individual piles, make sure they’re all of equal size. I know where to get my doses of normality. At dinner parties, I’m abnormally intolerant of stories about childhood. Why don’t you just ride around on a hobbyhorse, I want to say. The wine smells mossy, like the pelt of a small toothy animal. I can hear winter whoring her way through the drains and the pipes. Can hear her coming on like sickness, a dozen dirty throats. CRSUM09 poetry.indd 75 5/22/2009 12:37:03 PM ...