"My Reptile" Little frilléd lizard with your big mouth and your clutch of egg. Pure urge iguana I wanna wanna wannaheavy pet in a moist habitat. Your dewlap licks down my spine; your creep yearns, yearns your crawl, like a small machine that you rev and rev and rev until the engine floods. Gin and bleach: two clear liquids aiming for purity, bordering the toxic. Catherine Wing's poems are soaked in her cocktail, mixing doubt, loneliness, rough elbows, and razor focus. It riddles, aiming askew for a straight answer: how do we make our way through this world?
Poems sprung from the brain of Wallace Stevens after an erotic dream about Miss Dickinson and breakfast with Mother Goose.
