That Question: Notes Toward a Poetics of Truth
Karen Connelly
August 2, 2011
The door slams—she
The door slams—she cannot
The door slams—she cannot remember
The door slams and she stumbles down the steps
in a t-shirt, nothing else.
Blood footprints follow her.
The door slams and she manages to get out
but where are her shoes?
her underwear?
She wouldn’t fuck him
Stop it
Her clothes are in the house
Stop it
Her washing machine photographs cutlery
are in the house also
Everything she owns
lives in the house . . .