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Beth Woodcome
USA
bethwoodcome@yahoo.com
| Beth Woodcome lives in Boston, MA. She works at
Berklee College of Music, and is currently a candidate for an MFA at
Bennington College. She is the poetry editor of Perihelion magazine
and Boston area coordinator for the organization Poets for Peace. Her
work appears or is forthcoming in Columbia Review, Born Magazine,
www.canwehaveourballback.com , Web Del Sol Review, and In Posse
Review. |
War
Lean in like babies. Lean in like paranoids. Our eyes go
to the left,
and quickly to the right. Can you hear it? Can you tell me when it’ll
happen?
The sound of someone plotting. A deep breath.
All those fatigues. Those boys.
Let me tell you something. Come closer so my lips. So my lips.
Last I checked you should run.
An Annotated Inferno
I see my birth, covetous as smoke,
devour me. It’s a victory that repeats itself.
If someone is calling my name I can’t hear it.
The creak of the world’s shoulder
turning: the only sound of the last door
opening.
On the balcony, where all ecstasy should
happen, kneeling will be my last pleasure.
If someone is calling to me, I’ve forgotten it.
If so, ask me my sorrows.
Are you frightened?
I’m alive and I want someone
else to do it for me.
How did you wake?
Someone has always been
saving my life.
Tell me your joy.
Someone is calling to me.
Devotion, The Story of My Ear
The floor is cold. Hardwood with small
noises shuttering along each plank.
When I walk I walk blindfolded.
There’s only so much I can stand at once.
I don’t live in the same world anyone else does.
I can feel you in the house. Your breath
at night is my alarm. Something that can
pull me head first, from room to room.
If I can find you living, I’ll sleep.
If I can find you, I’ll stop.
© All Copyright, Beth Woodcome.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By
Permission.
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