salt windows
Two poems from Weeks 10 & 11 of The Visceral Self
The Visceral Self intensive with Jeannine Ouellette has been over for a few weeks, but I’m slowly finishing up the last few exercises in between other things going on like transitioning between embroidery projects, writing an article and preparing for a webinar for Digits & Threads, and being interviewed for another podcast as well as for someone’s PhD research on textiles and accessibility. More news on those soon! In the meantime, my two poems:
salt song bright sky reflected as turquoise over white sand water so clear we see our feet in slow motion stirring up clouds then float on our backs to watch wispy white cirrus beasts we are silent on saltwater the almost petrichor of it drying on hot skin liquid lapping round our ears, the remote chatter of birds and people minutes linger into hours. salt inside us, salt outside us in our element creatures of the surface of the sea eventually we are too hot and let ourselves dip beneath the water later let it dry to a crust, stiffening our hair Why do we live so far from the ocean? This prairie was once seabed we lie back on cool dry ground amongst oceans of grasses salted rocks and the shells of small cretaceous creatures clouds the same weightless beasts the widening sky eats time spreads it thin on flat surfaces so we float heavy gravity the one thing that is undeniable we cannot trust the warm sun or the cool ocean they change with each rotation your wrist rolls under my hand to intertwine our cold fingers to warm each other's skin salt on our lips an ancient taste from swimming away the minerals we carry liquid inside us our stiffened hair washed clean we are weighty beasts of water the buoyancy of our lungs craving the floating, the sea when the world is too sharp I imagine myself on the ocean floor the heaviness of water holding me the world muted the salt inside me singing
windows we open the window to hear grackles clucking wind ruffles the mottled feathers of sparrows shifts soft parts of me into hardness a tension bone deep, an ache, jointed I collect beauty in my chest shards of ice carried north over the weir their path a jagged and cracked line tree roots slower and stronger than any manmade substance each cycle of seasons shortens as we age we sigh and exclaim every time the smallest pill lands on my desk the slightest clatter scintillating until clouds and darkness disperse hope for a window in the hospital flax blues in the fields palms held just at the tips of blossoms perfumed from everything I touch so I only touch what is clear-scented the humid noise of triage things without metal things easy to wash and heat the hospital scent out of smooth the edges of thick curtains against the wall
You can read my previous writing from The Visceral Self writing intensive with Jeannine Ouellette here:
Weeks 1 & 2: Tea & Sung Memory
Week 3: I remember Tobata :: Matyroshka
Week 4: curtains . birds . windows
Week 5: linen :: camp
Week 6: dark red nest
Week 7 & 8: throat then tongue
Week 9: The Details Matter, but So Does Time