to see the Indian Chief. He took my fingers, all of them.
I could feel his poor circulation, his cold feet and hands.
Smelling of corn, of snow asleep. I believed he had a disease.
I just wanted him to think I was smart.
By Christine Reilly
Monday, October 26, 2009
Thoughts That Strike Me When I Least Expect Them
to see the Indian Chief. He took my fingers, all of them.
I could feel his poor circulation, his cold feet and hands.
Smelling of corn, of snow asleep. I believed he had a disease.
I just wanted him to think I was smart.
By Christine Reilly
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Christine Reilly is a current senior at Bucknell University. She is currently assembling a chapbook of poetry for her honors' thesis. She has just completed her first fellowship at the Bucknell Seminar for Younger Poets. She was also the Summer 2009 Intern at the Gotham Writers' Workshop in New York. She has been published in Fire and Ice and Mirth Grinder, her school's two literary magazines, and was just published in The Anemone Sidecar and Asinine Poetry.
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