winter geese form small stubby fists on the horizon.
i court them in the morning
i court them in the evening.
time-keepers of sky, they honk forth liminality.
yesterday i climbed into the trunken arms of a weeping beech tree and wrangled my legs around its thick, curling limbs. pressed fingers into textured bark and husked my body up the pillar.
eye to eye with a yellow jacket.
wing to wing with chickadees.
there must have been twenty of them— the birds— darting through flat leafy green.
they fluttered so close to my face. the wind whimpered, whittled, whistled.
i perched in the tree with the great cloud of rapture.
the great cloud of rapture told me there is another way to root.
stop breathing the dirt of things.
i sky, i sky, i sky.
yours in poems,
emet
poems:
Swell by Hoa Nguyen
poet Ruth Rodriguez recently gave me a copy of A Musical Hell, written by Alejandra Pizarnik before her suicide in 1972. Translated from the Spanish by Yvette Siegert, this book brims with mystery, voice, and rapture.
Dead Doe I by Brigit Peegan Kelly— poet Gabrielle Bates introduced this poem to me and Oooooof! What a meditation on the configurations of soul.
other things:
While at Bread Loaf Writer’s conference, I shared many outdoor breakfasts with Laura Mauldin. Here’s her essay on intensive caregiving, the devastation of losing a partner, and the process of healing.
BERLIN: I’m teaching a poetry workshop this fall on the “Ghost Voice.” We’ll dig into Kim Hyesoon’s essay “Tongueless, Mother Tongue,” workshop our own material, and explore questions like: How do we write with our own death? What is the voice beyond the voice? How many voices can our poet bodies contain? email emet.ezell@gmail.com to register; workshop starts September 5th.
