Wednesday, June 13, 2012


Rain twists itself on rooftops,
a crazed animal
that kneads its spine
as the old woman knits.
Her white fingers beat like wings against the cloth,
spin and spin a pattern
on blue-gray wool,
same shade as the television,
static in the next room.
Screen hangs in limbo
halfway between two channels.
She wants to jump in,
ease her bones
between the two worlds,
feel static cotton-fuzz block up her ears.
Then her eyes will take the look of glass,
she a creature past all touch and texture,
smooth as the screen
as it clicks off to black.

About Shannon Cuthbert:
Shannon Cuthbert is a creative writing and psychology major at Hamilton College. Her work has previously been published in Red Booth Review, Prick of the Spindle, and Emerge Literary Journal.

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