Karina Borowicz


Something with feathers
or possibly fangs
is curled up, raw
munching the starch
inside the bulb
in the dark drawer

or a flower waits
in the papery egg
that crackles like an onion
petals collecting themselves
in the yolk, composing
themselves from the red
and yellow glints that fall
on its shell as it drowses
by the windowsill

then, when it finally opens
there is no snake springing
from the cave of the clay pot
no sharp-shinned hawklet
building a nest laced with bones
on the cliff of my kitchen shelf

when the red fist defiantly opens
there's nothing
but opening


A beetle dangling from a cobweb
spins. The heat has come on.

A warning
like geese hurrying
across the sky.

In a world
gathering itself to snow
every black thing
glows with red edges
as if pulled from a forge.


      For my neighbor Kozlov in apartment 70

You prey on whispers
pin them to the wall with your drill

Exploding in a tantrum of hammer
and nails, you're a tornado in a tool belt
a dervish with wrecking-ball fists

Butcher, the blood of small sounds
is on your hands: a spoon
in the bell of a coffee cup
the dog sighing herself back to sleep
the flutter of tiny claws against plaster

A sudden hail of paint
chipped loose from the ceiling
and I'm awake, not knowing which—
heartbeat or hammer?