Incidentally, the tip of a sharpened pencil settles beneath my skin and I freak because lead is poisonous and my body now houses the slow potential of danger.Read More
your back leaning over a glass display
where traces of bodily fluids
from a real autopsy splatter. I look, but cannot
touch. We meet again like careful delegates
Like her blending of genres, her play with words is a subversion of language, the power structure that imposes boundaries on her cultural and gender identityRead More
Welmmann’s work is a direct descendent of Meret Oppenheim's and Elsa Schiaparelli’s. And just as Oppenheim and Schiaparelli, Wellmann is on the “right side” of representation of the female form. On a platform ridden with casual and blatant misogyny, there is repose in Wellmann’s posts.Read More
"I love the way poetry has the capacity to hold questions that can’t be answered; to maintain their unanswerability as active, expressive, generative."Read More
A copy of Caravaggio’s Deposition
in the Chiesa Nuova
is too dark to see.
No lamp to feed coins into a box,
no lux ambulatory.
Inhale. I take a deep breath in through my nostrils. The air travels through the cartilaginous rings of my trachea, divides at the bifurcation of the bronchi, rushes down smaller and smaller pathways. It expands my lungs, widening my ribcage, stretching my diaphragm, raising my collarbones. Seconds pass before I release the breath, letting it stream out slowly, whispering away to nothing. Exhale.Read More
Guinea-pig whole and splayed on the plate.
The room they put you down in
bright, table-banter light.
There's a comfort in discovering the assimilation of “stitching,” Carson's weaving toward reconciliation, her inclination (perhaps) toward mending the abstract mind over memory using two genres.Read More