Alice Fulton


End Fetish: An Index Of Last Lines

a face stares back.
across the hostile centuries.
add a twist — delicious.
and never feel a thing.
commercial — added stretch to every gesture.
how it is made.
I almost admire it. I almost wrote despise.
I’ d be all give. Let me put it like this==
in the nocturnal, recessed bed==
of nettles.
resembles the bird it will fly into.
Right now I’ m trying to open wide.
she turns to a tree.
she would be neither-nor.
smoky field.
that is space.
the bride.

You Own It

For your birthday, I’ m learning to pop champagne corks
with a cossack sword when all you asked for was world peace.
I’ m actioning the deliverables to wish you many happy returns

of the ecstasies that are imminent when all you requested
was a contentment so quiet it’ s inaudible. Remember when
I gave you a robe of  black silk that floats and does not rustle?
When all you desired was to turn from what was finished and hard

“Make It New”

I find it helpful to imagine writing in a blizzard
with every inscription

designed to prevent snow
crystals from drifting in.

Avoid the hive mind. Go fly a kite,
raise a stained glass window in the sky.

It’ s the opposite of making love to drudgery,
what I do for a dying.

Remove the bitter sediment
trapped in the brewer. It will be new

whether you make it new
or not. It will be full of neo-