through the air before it hit
her face, a smacking thud
pancaking her packwards
against the wall, her ear
splitting open on the picture
framing a farmhouse, a meadow
green, where fluffy white sheep
were grazing, peacful. Splotched
now red molasses-wet,
it etches a new scene
of heavy breath and vacant eyes.
Lucidity loses in a time warp
wavering before her, the cast iron
frying pan dangling, useless,
until it's time to cook the eggs.
(c)Nancy Powell 2007
from How Far Is Ordinary
Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA
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