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Poetry Prose Visual Art Reviews UN— Contributor Bios Submissions Staph Home |
Barbara Lee
Anatidae I have grown down into feathers, fat and waddling among willows. My swimming is too busy; I watch, learn to torque a neck, arch wings in air. But with every paddle, swing and glide, I am this self; swans fly where there are no feathers, trees, leaf or sky. I circle the gate, construct fence posts, hammer and beat them endlessly. With every thought I intend a swan, beg flight against the weight of stones. Blowing Poets in America Your words in my hands like body parts— stray fruit falls on the cover. My fingers, wet with juice, flip page upon page; stains on blank corners give voice to seed: daughter, son and wife. I play scales on the back staircase, tongue dusty balustrades and navigate geographies of your widowed stars. Between rushed strophes, I lounge and close my eyes. Blind Willie sings. He sings us low; your words in my mouth grow tumescent. Somewhere on the river, tugs pull a barge and a foghorn blows. |
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