from Mancala

A hallway leads to my room made of stacked horizontal lines. 

I, at the sound of loud music, become a collection of vertical lines like a field of wheat. 

Peter and the president do illegal drugs on my sofa. 

I stretch across their laps and, with enough effort, flatten and expand. 

The velvet is overlaid with a thin surface of ink. 

When stood far enough back from, a vague geometry of colors, perhaps a forest with a lake. 

A body of water where my arm used to be. 

Surface of blue, interior inscrutable. 


Peter meets me in my summer garden, as arranged. 
Blood on the beanstalks and some on the peach blossoms. 

Whatever evidence we left behind got tagged and shipped to Pennsylvania in a refrigerated car.

I kept the rabbit for myself, of course, and fired it in the kiln.
It sits above my dresser, a soft ear of glass, and only moves when I tell it to. 

I watch from under the covers. 

My flashlight reflected off its shoulders gives the room a blue glow. 


Dusk is an unhealthy approximation.

On the back porch children pulling splinters out of the bottoms of my feet. 

I made it with fresh milk I say, before handing them something I canít see.

Like a pearl I turn it in my hands in the thinning light.

Someone from my class moves to the side of the swimming pool and folds his wet arms on the tiles, his head on his wrists. 

I donít have a crush on him, but something. 

In my next film, a clothesline of sheets dropping one after another to the horizon.

He tells me at the horizon is where they tie the tarp down.

(I drove the truck I was carried away in but the tarp was not my idea.) 

The road extending like the inside of a wire, tuned up then dropped.


Lindsey Webb's work can be found / is forthcoming from H_NGM_N, Jellyfish, tenderloin, ILK Journal, and likewise folio. She co-edits elsewhere mag. She is an MFA candidate at University of Massachusetts Amherst.