Through the Branches
Oranges as your kiss
opens my mouth
forgetting where we are
in a park full of mockingbirds.
When my eyes open I promise
to tell the truth.
The truth changes.
A vulture eclipses. I become
the sun. A hanging swarm.
Seeing everywhere at once
every thing
I cancel us to cross the
desert. Solvitur ambulando.
Scent of sun on your
forearm reverts to memory.
The casita’s roof
absorbed into the mountain’s forged shadow.
From this angle the sky
parts mesquite branches.
There’s an occurrence bright
enough to notice.
The
debut full-length poetry title by poet and editor Jami Macarty, who “lives
between Tucson, Arizona and Vancouver, British Columbia,” is The Minuses
(Louisville CO: The Center for Literary Publishing, 2020). The poems in The
Minuses are composed as accumulations of declarations and description, that
concurrently linearly build, and collage as lyric patchworks. Macarty writes on
violence both domestic and ecological; writing the moments between the language
and the lines, and out the other end of comprehension. Through The Minuses,
she writes out a great deal of violence from a variety of perspectives, from
the direct to the slant, even as she writes, to close the poem “Without Is
Guide”: “I am repeating how I feel // My skin outward like intercepting leaves
// In the throttle climate // The knife and fist climate // After lovemaking
everyone is sad [.]” This is, as the back cover attests, a book of distress, of
trauma, of witness: of, as she writes to open “Resuscitation,” “How we behave
in drought and anticipation.”
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