Danielle Pafunda

The most dear things slip: your newborn soapy and acrobatic, your narrative thread, your foot in the aisle, the first time you bed down with a lover, the first time you rise from that bed. The zeitgeist and weather therein. Slip and go, but are not necessarily lost. They lace in the web just beyond reach. Rooted as we are, each to our node, few options present. Stretching, shrieking, employing magnets, establishing networks. Myself, I jimmy the language. The more I do so, the nearer I pounce.

From another direction, wonder what happens to the word “pucker” when I slip it into a context it hasn’t conventionally occupied. What happens when the line itself slips? What does the reader have to slip on, slip off, to continue reading?

It becomes graphically near. Uncomfortably so, not wholly unattractive.

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