Thera Webb | Poem

Women without Heads

The dogs grow their feet
like a tulip opening on your kitchen table.

A girl’s face,
a carved stick with a horse’s head,
the whorl opening for her
to receive wool
like a secret hand.

(The dirt is messy.
Stars cycle distant stars.
Disaster signals the end.)

At the fading light
bring to her the wolfish mouth of your need.

 


Thera Webb enjoys people not pronouncing the silent H in her name. Her work can be found in Forklift Ohio, Finery, No Infinite, Hinchas de Poesia and in Privacy Policy, The Anthology of Surveillance Poetics. She is the author of two chapbooks: Reality Asylum (h_ngm_n) and On the Shoulders of the Bear (Fractious Press). She is the managing editor at Black Ocean.

2017-11-29T21:13:51+00:00 November 29th, 2017|