By Christine Hamm

My daughter, my sister  
lost on the milk carton:  

when you bit me, you gave me  
your feelings about the woods and silence.

Your teeth, gray as clouds  
and my blood, the color of old

lemonade.  My bones shift under  
neath my skin, multiply, contract,

a hollow sound, echoing  
from pink caverns, then muffled,  

a child shrieking under a pile
of abandoned coats.

Christine Hamm has a PhD in American Poetics, and is an editor for Ping*Pong Press. Her poetry has been published in Orbis, Nat Brut, BODY, Poetry Midwest, Rattle, Dark Sky, and many others. She has been nominated five times for a Pushcart Prize, and she teaches English at Pace. Echo Park, her third book of poems, came out from Blazevox in the fall of 2011.The New Orleans Review published Christine's latest chapbook, A is for Absence, in the fall of 2014, and nominated her work for a Pushcart.

© 2017