Jillian Parker		Fool's gold Wild boar, what do you covet? Hazel piss-eyes taunting, you pace in a circle. Greased pig, she names you, swine, and un-names you: Khriu-khriak. Bits of pyrite and hematite glitter in the Susitna's whitewater wash-tubs. Remember those voices from the shafts of the Kolyma-- Trace your trail, curl your tail by some gleaming ghost hoard in Carpathia, under a kurgan. Before you lies a wounded sparrow, her beak full of seeds. Let her go. Find your own flowering fern.		Caught in the back of my throat Shutter me into blackness in a blink of a mind's eye, break the march of the where/when: while a name un-worded and light un-stoppered flicker at the edges. I dreamt an awakening as if in a root cellar, of clawing through musty sand and emerging through a trap-door blindly, swaying, falling. Whose is this voice that rends me? Rough waves seize my spine, and tug at my shoulders, I ache from an inability to translate these messages. Why choose me? I'm just a girl from a family of women afraid to touch each other. She's there. It's Her, again-- all that I do not know, the ways I have not gone, the words that have not yet come, rising, writhing, rising.