Alarm
In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:
33 Alarm You sit on the porch swirling your wine. Red. Tomorrow, there’ll be an ache in each temple and the pillow will row the scent of a French vineyard further from your tongue, your night-breath branched through the batting’s cotton. But not now. Not now, even though the universe is moving apart at too many goddamn miles per second to count. Lately, you’ve counted August cicadas dried to the sides of cars, mailboxes. You found one stilled in the middle of the sidewalk, pinched its dry thighs but the shell wasn’t empty and so rang like a house broken into. Lately, you can set off an alarm without trying, you can see yourself stepping out from the darkened summer porch as if headed toward anything you could steal. ...
collapse
You are not currently authenticated.
If you would like to authenticate using a different subscribed institution or have your own login and password to Project MUSE
Authenticate
