Low moan
lipless scream
black wind
masks strangers
We slip our hold
spin, brittle as death.
Old wolf
musk
wheezing
deep
as childhood nightmare.

“I’m addicted to reading. I read a lot on eReaders (hard to do a Page 143 poem from those) and I read a lot of paper books. Since finding your site, I’m always looking at page 143 in paper books, just to see what I can find. “The Woman and the War Baby” by Bill Ransom is a collection of his poetry and memoirs. It feels a bit odd taking a poem from a poem, and a short poem at that, but here it is. (Full disclosure here, Bill and I have had our paths converge now and then over the past several years.)” –Lenora Good