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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.
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Carrie ChappellCarrie 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. |
