When beside myself, besilvered
I summon the sculptress,
her hands small, I imagine,
but fine, unlike mine long with blood
from cutting up cattails. How I dig.
How the sweat of her knew work,
how this is a guest in the body, a ghost,
what we host in us. To configure one
in plaster, to haunt the eye with white,
to cut through white. Life stolen by
one posture. Nor can I “stand any longer
the screams,” but I cannot dream
of seclusion though life holds me to it
while I crack among stones, trying to not
ache in the arms of goddamn Rodin.
Carrie Chappell is originally from Birmingham, Alabama. She received her Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing from the University of New Orleans’ Creative Writing Workshop. Some of her poetry has appeared in Juked, Harpur Palate, horse less press, The Volta, Cream City Review, Paris Lit Up, The Offending Adam, and Bateau Press. Her book reviews have appeared in The Collagist, Diagram, Iowa Review, and Xavier Review. Currently, she serves as Poetry Editor for Sundog Lit and lives in Paris, France.