Autumn 2004
Volume 4, Number 4

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String Theory

I am the L
the fat mosquito smiling
on the white wall: strike me down

and I reappear, thin and hungry
across the dark room.
I am a bellyful of pancake,

the sunrise quickening.
You cannot stop desire:
the Word tingling the tip of the tongue.

The body never sleeps: the mind
drifts through the night, the sand
shifts in desert wind,

and the moon lifts the tin sky.
Someone, or some thing,
is always chanting.

—Jeremy Frey is studying toward a Creative Writing MFA at the University of Arizona. Between coursework, teaching, and hiking with his dogs in the desert, he volunteers for the Poetry Center by leading poetry workshops in schools, and runs the Writing-In-Progress graduate reading series for U of A creative writers.

Cat Mountain
A pair of red tails soaring, the ridge blessed and happy.
Vultures pack the air bursting with scent.
Raven not alone on his sure road of solace.

The boy fell and the girl drug the rope home.
Her hair twists in her hands to the day, his falling
Never ends; his tin cross screams at the base of the cliff.

A sliver of light shines brief. In the dark,
The sun pauses, its light falls against the cross
Arms, its light leaves the cross blind.

Her dark hair lifts in the wind,
His name called in the wind
Climbing the cliff,

The hawks never cease; their wings wind
The hours. How many times each year
The ocotillo bloom red.

The cloud-weep white relief:
Their ecstasy in singing, their joy
In grief.

—Jeremy Frey


Copyright 2004 by Cascadia Publishing House
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