Michele Leavitt
Even though my body wants to cleave in two to hold her
driftwood jams the riverbends as if
stacked up for a bone-fire of the gods.
I whisper baby's name to wake her, make
her take her bottle, juice and syrup laced
with Phenobarbital to still her seizures.
I love her chubby skin, like butter left
in sun, if butter would not melt. She will
not wake and cannot hold her head up, though
she's twelve months old, though now I see the driftwood
angles up toward stars as if it points toward
hope, as if it's true that God or time
combines mistakes to make a thing of beauty.
I made her. I am guilty. I am thirsty.
Sometimes I think a fire would be a mercy.
A flawless theory of everything
I woke up knowing my mistake--to trust
the fate that brought me this far North, where dawn
arrives too soon in summer. Wrapped in night
clothes and resentment, envying the lilies of a neighbor's
garden from my deck, I don't expect
the pair of hummingbirds mobbing me
at knee point, their throats phosphoric green,
their wings invisible as flesh can wish
to be. They have mistaken me, my shabby
ruby robe, my frou-frou feather slippers,
for wells of nectar, confused our meeting with
a miracle. They start, then zigzag off,
but leave this proof against the flaws I make:
a world too dense with meetings for mistake. |
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Mezzo Cammin is proud to announce that The Mezzo Cammin Women Poets Timeline Project, which will eventually be the largest database of women poets in the world, was launched on Saturday, March 27, 2010, at 6:00 PM at the National Museum of Women in the Arts in Washington, D.C. (Photo by Tom Field)
Visit Timeline. |
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| Gail Biederman: I use sewing as a form of drawing, as one way to alter a surface. Thread is my line, a physical presence that hovers in space in my installations. With both a cast shadow and an edge that catches the light, thread creates multiple realities, a jumbled mix of hard and soft, the solid and the ephemeral. | |
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