From: owner-mariposa-digest@smoe.org (mariposa-digest) To: mariposa-digest@smoe.org Subject: mariposa-digest V6 #4 Reply-To: mariposa@smoe.org Sender: owner-mariposa-digest@smoe.org Errors-To: owner-mariposa-digest@smoe.org Precedence: bulk mariposa-digest Tuesday, July 11 2006 Volume 06 : Number 004 Today's Subjects: ----------------- [mariposa] Comments on Luna's Published Work? ["reach" ] ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Date: Mon, 10 Jul 2006 21:47:13 -0700 From: "reach" Subject: [mariposa] Comments on Luna's Published Work? Below find a published work Luna wrote for a graduate student publication. What is your take on this? What do the sentences, "Our shirts are wild in pattern and loose and do not hide the chilled shrimp shape of nipples, the clavicles protruding, down sloping like muskoxen horns, or our fur of mammoth, short-faced bear, and the saber-toothed cat. Salmon swim protected in our skirts. A hungry growl blooms up inside of me like a mushroom, or mussels opened wide from steam." allude to? Who are the women in the black skirts? What is the reference to meat in the air? James Reach ======================= Published in Greenbelt Review Summer/Fall 2005 (UC Davis Graduate Creative Writing Program publication) Crows Luna Taylor Listen, I like the taste of cinnamon. Without sugar. I spill some on the stovetop when Im seasoning the meat, and I lick my thumb and pick it up, like filings to a magnet, I put them in my mouth. Without salt. Without grease, my disposition. When I see the women walking in black skirts, toward my window, I think about the air, the meat in it, sizzling and promising. The stir-fry crackles in the pan with peppers and onions and cilantro. I shovel it into a stainless steel bowl and stick it in the refrigerator, no time to cover it with wrap. For shame. I was the one who, as a college freshman, looked up the poets that I loved, to make sure they were beautiful. Christina Rossetti, Sara Teasdale, Amy Lowell. And when I saw the Stieglitz photos of Georgia OKeeffe, I put the book on the coffee table and put my cheek down on her breasts, the page sticking warmly to my face. I have implosions in my chest when I hear them coming up the steps, long black skirts pulled up so they wont trip, but brushing the plaster walls and cement steps. Big laughs, loud coughing. Here they undeniably come. They will not abandon me, no matter how I might wish sometimes. When Ive had enough. When I cannot take the dirt of it. No more, I wish, just for now. I was the one, as a child, who rarely saw naked flesh, except for deer, duck, and boar. Not my mother. No aunts. I once saw my grandfather coming out of the shower, fruit hanging on tired limbs after a tough storm. I felt pity like I did when Id see the pile of entrails, a shovel full, in a bucket, where the blood still dripped from the strung-up deer above. No need for those things. They went to the crows. I practice what Ill say when they come in the door. What a surprise. Oh yes, I was about to eat, but thats okay. Um, let me light some incense. Sorry about the smell. Have a seat. What about some music. Great to see you too. I became a teenager, and I moved into the library, sitting cross-legged in oversized rayon dresses, reading psychology books, eating them, the meat of middle-aged women describing sexual fantasies about stallions, and dragons. The women in long black skirts are coming through my door, but there is meat in the air. I kneel at my coffee table, a sort of altar, with a labyrinthine carved box from Palestine filled with tiny black candles that smell like wine tannin, and incense punks of all moods. Im laughing and catching up, but Im struggling with the matches, the watch around my neck ticks. A strike, a blow, a tiny plume of cardamom and clove hides their vegetarian smiles slightly from my view. I relax on the outside, but I can feel it in my belly. Im a young woman; I have so much to learn. Where is the room for it? I stopped putting sugar in my tea before I turned 18. I can no longer eat a whole jalapeqo. I chew on licorice root when my throat is sore. Even bakers unsweetened chocolate, when there is nothing else in the house to curb desire, I lick a spoon and dip it in. These women and I are rough on the edges. Our shirts are wild in pattern and loose and do not hide the chilled shrimp shape of nipples, the clavicles protruding, down sloping like muskoxen horns, or our fur of mammoth, short-faced bear, and the saber-toothed cat. Salmon swim protected in our skirts. A hungry growl blooms up inside of me like a mushroom, or mussels opened wide from steam. These women and I get sick together, we beg for it. We sit on small stools or on the rugs and pass our delicate pipes, touching the interwoven colors all over, the tulip bulbs, the phallic flowers, enclosed inside out, smudged, trapped in glass. When I am an old woman I will think back on art. Dance. Drums. Tuned strings. Voice. Words. Carved oolitic limestone of Willendorf. Red and yellow ocher smeared across our ribs like the walls of Lascaux. Cinnamon smear on my lips. Ill think of them like a flock of crows, with yellow eyes, swirl of dark pecking at the falling apples. Bloodthirsty. What I want is the one across from me, thick with butter and flour. I want to tear off the tattered silk poetess blouse, and with both hands knead up the potato dough of her tattooed back, and sink my teeth deep into the red. ________________________________________________________________ Sent via the WebMail system at dock.net ------------------------------ End of mariposa-digest V6 #4 ****************************