by Cheryl Snell
They will ask How could you let this happen? of the cloud with its head in its hands. It fades from view, so they ask each other, If not him, what shall we blame? The sundial for throwing its shadow, or the shadow for its contradictions of size and shape?
The same incongruities that disorient the man who trips and suffers a wound, or the wound for giving rise to a scab? Or the scab for being picked by the weave of fingers of a man who doesn’t blame himself for anything? Especially not for his own taste for blood.
Cheryl Snell’s books include several poetry collections and the novels of her Bombay Trilogy, but her most recent writing has appeared in Does It Have Pockets?Switch, Gone Lawn, Your Impossible Voice, Necessary Fiction, Sage Cigarettes, Pure Slush, and other journals.
