← v1n1, Spring 2002
Poetry · Volume 1, Number 1

Wound, Marilyn Nelson, Inge Pederson

Cold comes from every corner.

It's snowing.

And from the train Europe looks like

a brittle romantic poem

in which the lakes close

their black moon-

lost eyes and trickling

roses can be waiting in the ground

around a perfectly ordinary house

containing a perfectly ordinary family

and then suddenly seep out

like blood through

a snow-white bandage.