i.m. Diane Pretty
They lead me (nervous and suited) to the
living room. She's all peachy toed and rimmel-red
mouthed smiles. Machines grind and wink, but
if you listen with care you can hear that her body
is ticking, then cracking and oozing out her liquid
life, onto the carpeted floor. She is now an interpreter
of silence, can read the walls unease, reveal why the
silvery sounds of dawn rasp just for her.
She is aware that she is being edited, imperceptibly
nibbled by tiny fish, and contracting down to this
verse, this line, in the papers "I am Diane-Help me."
[Published in Magma Magazine in Autumn 2012 (Issue 51)]