Andrea Defoe

lives with her family on the Red Cliff Indian Reservation in northern Wisconsin. She prefers to think of herself as being at least of few cats shy of crazy cat lady, but she's honestly not so sure. Her poems have appeared in various literary journals, most recently: Rattle, 32 Poems, New American Writing and Margie.







I don't know what to say about the poem. It's as close as I get to inspirational verse, brought about by one of those photos where you can't count the zebras and one of those factoids about the stripes actually being white on black. It pretty much says ignorance is bliss, but who wants to summarize their poem like that?

Field of Zebras

Beginnings upon endings:
white clocks in black rooms.
Look: he does not know his body
is a cage or a plot of corridors.
You can tell because he is running.
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