For All the Tiny Sneezes by Cynthia Belmont
After the Fire by Jon Martin
If every sneeze is a little death then some people are going very gentle into that good night on a daily basis: the modern straitlaces, the ones inside, have bound them up so tight you’ re just tiny sneezes like women who had too many doors slammed in their youth, like flames trembling on their wicks in a solemn breeze
in a drafty church where the currency is( as always) shame. Barely a sneeze, more like a hard swallow or dainty choke, more like a fluttering hand in front of a sneeze than the sneeze itself, or the high-pitched snap of a taut wire or alarm bell in a Barbie-sized fire station warning: Fire! Sweet innocent baby dragon’ s breath of a feminine fire! Don’ t worry, no harm done.
Lady sneezes, come on now, come out wherever you are. The sneeze is a bud that ripens within as a delicious itch and is, like the rest of the body, an instrument of pleasure. The sneeze has something to say: You can’ t stop this! And why try? Do it up. Loose the balloons. And, Baby, bless you.
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