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Eve Alexandra

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Eve Alexandra is the author of The Drowned Girl (Kent State University Press, 2003). She teaches at the University of Vermont.

by this poet


Tiny jewels of sand and salt spill from her mouth. Her lips lie like cloistered nuns. But her ears—they open like lilies. And suddenly all around her there are songs being sung. New notes slick and green, currency on everyone else's tongue. Her own was slow, cut from the wrong cloth, it hadn't been out on the town

Needle to thread. Scythe to wheat. Foot to pedal. Hammer and 
sickle. Work, work, work. She has three sisters. At dusk she drinks tea. 
From the silver belly of a samovar. In the dark she drinks vodka. She 
takes a lover who smells of fresh meat and the pines. The hunt is on 
him, like his tongue on the
There were tiny hounds sniffing out their gilded cages. Fireplaces 
chaste, unlit and beds soft as the pears I ate from palms outstreched. 
The hem of my dress was wet from the fountain and finally it lay on
the floor like the slick blue skin of a fish. We danced silver as a
shiny hook. I heard them clap: red