Monday, December 17, 2012


by Debra Kraft
c 2008

Trapped in a circular room, 
a large room


the ceiling is far, too far. It towers,
hovers over my head.
My shoulders feel the weight, heavy
and black --


Before me all is white 
wisps of white curtains, 
sheer light curtains, so
delicate so clean, so

They sift past a distant breeze
and then shift


toward me

until I am surrounded.

A hundred hands, a thousand fingers,
pressing at the fabric, 
pushing from beyond, 
from without, from an out
side that does not exist, that cannot


All that is
is here, is this, this white room,
this round room, this merry-go-round
of white curtains and reaching hands,
this menagerie
of hands.

I spin around; I twist away and still those
hands encircle me, still those fingers press
and push and reach through sheer white silk,
through fine fabric so soft, so sheer, so


as sharp as death, and

as dark as the dead sky, the forgotten sky.


I remember.
I can still see the blue.
I can see the blue and white, 
wispy white


from passing jets from jet engines, from

monsters made for pushing, for pressing,
for reaching beyond. I can smell the fuel
burning, that oppressive, thick aroma, so
dark, so thick, so black, as
black as espresso.

I can taste the smooth silk on my tongue,

as grasping fingers reach me, as
they wrap around my arms. I can feel
that silken, smooth grip tightening, 
pressing down upon my shoulders, 
exploring the silk
of my breasts,

and the drip of warm espresso, so smooth,
as chocolate fluid glides along my thighs,

and all hope dies in longing


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