Spring 2013, Volume 14

Poetry by Donald Illich

The Collapse

O, forehead, I haven't talked about you
enough.  Your story of how I collapsed
is beautiful.  How the blood screwed up

its directions, giving my mind something
to fail at.  On the sidewalk, I bruised
my bones, closed my eyes like blinds.

The ambulance came, everyone feared it
might be too late.  But later that day
I did something else — spoke words backwards,

strung together memories in the wrong order.
You were witness to all this, but what
you recall is her kiss dampening your skin.





BIO: I am a writer-editor who lives in Rockville, Maryland. I've published work in LIT, The Iowa Review, Nimrod, and other publications.