Issue 7, Winter/Spring 2009

Alla Demidova
by Jac Jemc

Alla Demidova noticed she was being reflected in a convex  mirror, the object in the center appearing the largest.  She bowed her body a crooked spine.
            She had just published her collected diaries and was now traveling the globe to buy them all back. 
            It was an expensive way to live one’s life.   She’d make a pot of coffee, drink one cup and end up throwing the rest away.
            She hung in doorways, asking questions and then moving in or moving on.
            The space between her legs acted with presence and then forgetting.
            Her mouth sounded bare, peaceful whispers.
            Her eyes were always searching for something to burn to the ground.  The ashes always took up less space than the un-ignited.
            When she thought she had gathered every copy of her book, she went to an evening, an event held in an alley where people performed together, separate or not at all.  There, she could have sworn, under the din of trashcans being tapped and gravel being knocked against itself, she heard some of her own words:
            “The mouth is the seat of creation.  Despite the distance we can hear the voices’ tone and the quality we discern is this: begging.”