Blues at the edge of the parking lot

​Joan and I are one and the same! Obsessed
with curtains that spill like gold. Theatrical silk!
Tangled amber! Syrup trickle! Glitz pulled down


Ribbons of Honey

It’s the same café each night
though the women are interchangeable—round
shoulders and the smudge
of mink that holds its breath when the waiter passes
balancing the tray laden with sugar cubes, absinthe and cocktails
named after far away cities. The 

A Woman Drifts Off on Shift in Reillanne

Some days, the light trims my edges
until I am a stick figure, raising my bow
to shoot the sun, the great roach
that scuttles across the sky. Other days, I lie
like a fish corpse in the dried riverbed.
In the old myths, I gathered olives.

Emma Fuchs

Selected work