Alessandra Lynch

  The mice of the mother’s house had tiny faces and breathed behind the paint, skittering like ticket stubs between floorboards, light and anxious. A few had small subway-car bodies tunneling fast, pushing roughshod over the grouting, nosing [...]

  The brutal white horses with painted-on faces Are riding their circles, riding Dead air. The dead air is hanging, Is ridden with riders and glued-on red Saddles. Crumpled hoofs in the dead-on air. The wild glare of the brutal white horses [...]