Matter & Ash


As the eyes are unsealed and the world flows in as light. Dwindled shadow, the rest is dark. It keeps leaving me. Worms where the dirt is too rain-wet writhe into the light, too dry. The mouth that opened the box, I leave them there as thought of one day done. When your studies are over, the cups stuck in the holes of the bird house left in a gust, using what you made to make something new. The red Calder falls from this angle onto the plaza, but no one is paying attention. The binding has been compromised, and the pages are falling from the windows in the sky. I would rather be simple, for what that would mean. She wants to know about souls and wars, about the coldness blowing in off the lake. This is not working. The elements of other loves and moments press against the border, the body, referencing itself against the ongoing outside. We keep moving outward, away from the gridded middle to the edges where the white crabs are boiled to red over and over again, and the nets, dragging in a dark and tidal crushing. Where is the real, not reflected, moon? Parked by the bowl of olives, rubbing its stinging eye.








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Carolyn Guinzio’s third book, Spoke & Dark, was chosen by Alice Quinn for the To The Lighthouse/A Room Of Her Own Prize and will appear in 2012 on Red Hen Press. She’s also the author of West Pullman, winner of the 2004 Bordighera Poetry Prize, and Quarry (Parlor Press, 2008). Her work has appeared in Blackbird, Colorado Review, Indiana Review, New American Writing, Puerto Del Sol, and Smartish Pace, among other journals. She is the editor of an online journal of innovative writing and images by women called Yew.