h o m e........
p a s t   i s s u e s....
s u b m i s s i o n s....
l i n k s





She Looks Toward the Forest for a Formation and I See an Orchestra Playing


ease my way to the far side of the opal and lie above the ants, next to the roses,

wisdom in their creases, brightness in their pigment. The ensuing, though not

of armor, a stone of diamond as well as quill. Fish emerge from black holes

so that one wonders what is in them; or a wolf watches you through the window

with patience on the flagstone among roses , or the moon is so large it seems

only seventy miles away, once you make it to the secret beach in broad daylight.

A woman sends her child away for having a child and the man nearly drowns

in a lake. Why is it that only the fire department could save him? Why is it that

the mother reveals the mother-of-pearl only to him? It is because the daughter

ran home through darkness, heather and wild grass and thorny weeds scratching

her shins, her ankles, in order to arrive before her father could notice. No one

will ever know of the tryst or that her name was ______ , laboring to labor.

No one will ever know summer woods had a playhouse in them with incan-

descent pink and turquoise furniture, and palm-size stones marking the edges

of invisible walls. It was the way she lived bounded only by the imagination

and the imaginary white stones. But what of the root like a gold knuckle sticking

from the black earth? A numinous rise against which her soul stepped. What

of the nasty rash, that rose? She’d love to do something rash, but nothing was

coming. At night she wants to take a sharp scraper to the red peaks, scrape

the range of them off. Scrape it off! Burn them into ash and smooth the bottoms

of her feet with sandpaper, unwrinkled as a boat ramp or the side of a slice of

cheese. A pet arrives in the doorway and says Talk to me. A girl falls into

the ocean, is bitten by fish and emerges with a stone covered in diamonds

and sea urchin quills.  (The soul requires its protectorate. Even if, as he says,

the only energy is love, it’s just that we can’t see it.)  Last night, a bird sang at the window.

One song, but that was enough. More and it would have left magic and re-

turned to the nightly. Within the same stanza, the lamp above my head,

of its own volition, turned on. It was a dreamless night after electrical play

in concert with nature; a daytime singer letting loose a line in the middle of

la noche oscura; a single ovary blossom on a wild rose bush and a sage-colored

evergreen that wandered down from the north. Grizzlies have lumbered north

and polar bears have decided it is in the best interests of the clan to spread their

magnificent legs, furred and clawed, a pattern of ice floe and millions of rivers.

That’s what happens when one loses one’s home.


Understand Me, Sir, Romanticism Undergirded Each Act


              We were younger, we laughed
at the girdles,  giggled in the face of
the fit and what it meant to embody
the feminine – – how to cleave   act-
tually meant to press
to a part,  

                            and fall into
the HOly MOther of

desire ( Just thinking of it
made her wand exist ! ) .  

When you ask, in sickness as in health, the readiness
of my yes becomes
                                             a woman at sea
                                             in the sage
and at ease with it. Fronds in the peri-
pheral  cheer on the matter.





BIO: Sawnie Morris won the Poetry Society of America Bogin Award (2010) and a New Mexico Book Award (2007). Her prose about poetry has appeared in The Kenyon Review, Contemporary Literary Criticism, and Boston Review. She is Book Review & Essay Editor for Taos Journal of International Poetry & Art.

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