Issue 11.2 Spring 2016

cover image

 

About the Author

I am a poet, mixed media artist and endurance athlete. My poetry has most recently been published or is forthcoming in Feminine Collective, Through the Gate, Gambling the Aisle, and POEM, among others. I am the author of two poetry collections: Continuum, published by Finishing Line Press, and The Presence of Absence, winner of the 2014 Janice Keck Literary Award for Poetry. In my writing, I like to connect ethereal qualities of emotion to concrete aspects of the natural world. I’m fascinated with birds and rivers, and these are frequently highlighted in my poems. I try to reveal just enough meaning through tone, sound, rhythm and language so that a reader can find an entry into the poem and discover personal truths. I believe poetry is relational – that it can cut through walls and build bridges, that it can help heal divisions and be a source of beauty. In as much as our world is dependent on words to communicate and express both joy and discontent, poetry serves as a conduit for speech beyond words, for layered meaning within the lines of a poem. I believe there’s a real sort of magic in that.

 

Tattoo

 

Sandy Coomer

 

 

I’m thinking about wings.

Kirk, the tattoo artist, drawsbird figures

on a piece of scrap paper, asks me if I like them.

I’m thinking about herons, how the big blue one

that stands knee deep in the Little Harpeth

floats his legs when he flies. His wing span,

the length of my whole body, casts a shadow

even larger. I’m thinking about

air current and down drafts, how the wing

slices a path. I’m thinking about Kirk’s ink

and piercings, and his waist-length hair

braided thick as rope. He says

it’s easier to be still if I don’t look

at what he’s doing –which is needling

my wrist with a tiny pin that has the bite

of a blow torch. I’m thinking of black

as it spills into my skin. Black on white.

Black in white. I’m thinking about herons

because they stand motionless

but hear and see everything.

Becausethey hunt alone.

I’m thinking about herons

because the last time I saw one,

it was standing on the eave of our house,

waiting to scoop the koi from the pond

we built together. Seeing everything.

Hearing everything. I’m thinking about

wings, how Kirk fills them in on my skin

with blackest ink. Black in white.

How he talks about clean edges,

How his braided hair hangs like a snake

down his back. I’m thinking about ink,

how I used to write your name

beside mine over and over to see

how they fit together, how they flew,

the wings of the letters looping towards

each other and apart, and apart.

How they hunt alone.

How the blow torch comes as a tiny pin,

enormous in shadow and seeing everything.

 

 

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