a clip of one of the two poems I performed at this past weekend’s Albuquerque Aerialist Collective show, A Curated Exhibition of the Lost & Found. this video was taken at rehearsal the night before the show. by opening night, i had actually managed to memorize that line at the end.
my dad, and the girl scouts, taught me how to read a map.
to interpret topography, climb a mountain, return home.
to carry a compass at all times, and to use it.
if you have this, you can never get lost.
for years i kept one in my purse.
now i remember your crooked brown finger,
tracing the line, then pointing out the ridge.
now i map my past, trace roads and ridges
on satellite maps, hunt out your old campsites,
feel the curve of the land and the road in
the shape of my childhood,
to find my way back to you.
to bring what is left of your body
and what is left of my childhood,
back to one place,
and feel that long sunlight,
and the ash in my hands.
Metamorphosis & Mayhem
Lisa Gill, Erin Daughtrey & Tani Arness
January 24th, 2016
at Tortuga Gallery
Join us for a poetry reading featuring new and collaborative work by
4pm at Tortuga Gallery
901 Edith SE
We have a collaborative poem in four voices for the finale — this will be a one-of-a-kind experience!
A limited-edition chapbook including work by each of the four of us will be available at this event. The door-price gets you a copy of the chapbook! Chapbooks will also be available for purchase from the poets after the reading.
all night my sleep is troubled by bells.
outside, the bronze bell from my wedding,
the arcosanti bell, three leaping fish on the clapper,
plays in the wind of a passing storm.
your love enfolds me from afar, a molecular cloak.
it is in your sweatshirt that i will not take off.
it is in your text messages and phone calls,
and the stray black hair i find on my pillow.
in your absence, i breathe you in
and the wind all night leaps like a fish,
and rings bells upon bells upon bells.
the dawn sky cracks with birdsong.
wild geese fly over in a noisy mass,
autumn spilling from their wingbeats.
you leave my side, your silhouette
disappears through the doorway
into a grey morning, one shadow
vanishing into another.
weeks will pass before i see you again.
i do the only thing i can, and go back to sleep.
winter can wake me when you return.
i woke to blood like a waterfall between my legs
and a spider newly living on the door.
all night i had dreamed you were lying beside me,
our bodies soft with sleep conjoined
the darkness thickened by our linked breath.
in the rising light of day there is only the cat
with her needs as soft as mine,
grandmother spider framed
in sunlit stitches of her own devise,
and the blood between my legs to remind me,
time passes, even in dreams.