fall preview: five lines from Lauren Camp’s “Measure”

Hope was sick in a chair beside me. My shadow was the exhibit, the hypotenuse

of desire and anger. What was in me – what ravage, pulp, what sticky

language? The piñon-scented public servant stood in the rough weather of our

kitchen as wind flared and spit, as I sat silent, knees locked together. In a

specialized study of trauma, there are no shortcuts.

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