The Level Eye

Far above the malleable half-rib floater,
a sudden unexpected pain

skitters where the skin curve of the fifth rib
builds a parking lot

and the left breast rises toward moonish
areolar light.

A magnetic jolt? The deadly current
that electrifies the eel? And from my mouth

a cramped unnatural squeal or cry, as if I
were the only woman left

with two small breasts, a steady heart with two
varieties of song: beat

and beaten, hark and harkens, whole and holy.
Listen. The cricket cannot halt

his call. It owns him. Any regret
you hear is mine. He wraps himself around

the knot of that single note and shines
and when the shining stops, he's gone.


-- Lisa Sewell

I shall never smoke another cigarette. Not until next week. Ouch. This late-night running is getting to be a likeable habit.