frenzy
all I can hear is the pitch
of my own sticky pulse
flattened ovoid the push
still thick ever sharp all
I can see is swells of rag
and bone men our collected
works two pounds a penny
each for each all I can taste
is wool plunge cold in river
weeds sketchy aftertaste
of beneficial mud all I can
smell is dazed lilac a wrench
of oversweet saline eyes
crunched onto silk all I can
feel is circled throat cordite
tether lacked safety net
incensed sense of supposed
somewheres craved colour
body curls inwards fierce
folded spiral smallest small
Christine McNair's work has appeared in The Antigonish Review, fireweed, bywords.ca, CV2 and some other places. She won an honourable mention in the Eden Mills Literary Competition and second prize (poetry) in the 27th Atlantic Writing Competition. She works as a book doctor in Ottawa.