September 17-23, 2007: Jordan Brown and Ryki Zuckerman

week of September 17-23, 2007

Jordan Brown and Ryki Zuckerman

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Jordan Brown
jbrown5@washcoll.edu

Bio (auto)

Jordan Brown currently attends Washington College in Chestertown, Maryland and is double majoring in Environmental Studies and English She loves to sleep outside, and misses her horse.

The following work is Copyright © 2007, and owned by Jordan Brown and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Motion

Reclined, steeping and
preserved in sunrise sound,
I felt pitted in distress
for what I would wear
to the burial.

Draped my stale body
in dark silk, soft as
my insides are warm,
weaved specifically to
comfort my layered skin.

Jabbed a suede heel
into morning soil, while
shifting between psalms
and useless resentment.

Gaped at wafted clouds
sliding through time, I
forced one glance
as she sunk below life.

And all I could motion,
the toss of single
budded rose
on her earthed coffin.


Ryki Zuckerman
rykiland1@yahoo.com

Bio (auto)

Ryki Zuckerman is an artist, poet, and co-editor of Earth’s Daughters magazine (www.earthsdaughters.org), who also programs two reading series in Buffalo, New York Her chapboook, Body of the Work, was published by Textile Bridge Press A few of her poems are at Buffalo State Rooftop Poets website (http://www.buffalostate.edu/library/rooftop/members/ You can also hear her on a podcast there, as well as on www.thinktwiceradio.com, at the Allen St Hardware Cafe

The following work is Copyright © 2007, and owned by Ryki Zuckerman and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

on the ponte milvio

on the oldest bridge in rome,
arched across the water below
for more than two millennia,
the young italian writes the name
of his beloved on a padlock,
closes its metal arch
tightly over the links of chain,
fitting it in amidst hundreds of other locks
the chains, stretched out like welcoming arms,
weigh down the ancient lampposts
pooling light onto the walkway,
until the lamps crash down the weight of love is heavy
the keys are always tossed into
the dark, dried-blood hued tiber,
sinking to the bottom of the old river,
where the bones of ladies of the night,
also tossed over the side,
are dancing on slippery wedges
of rusted metal,
remembering flesh.


the commerce of trolls

high-school cool –
those ugly “lucky” troll dolls
with long, stick-up hair,
we hung them off of our handbags
in those days before backpacks;

when i gave one to lainie,
my boyfriend’s little sister,
she chortled with delight,
turning it over in her hand
to view its tiny, naked,
pink plastic butt;

i gave it to lainie,
as a talisman of good fortune, 
soon after, meningitis stole all her luck;

how could anyone,
even younger than us, die?
we teenagers,
meant to live forever;
time turning over in our hands,
the luck of  trolls
protecting us;

over the years,
troll dolls found favor on and off,
always bringing
the ghost of lainie
grinning at me
from the top shelf today
when i turned into the toy aisle,
those icons of lainie –
lainie, long dust;

“we are genuine trolls from denmark
and we bring luck,” read the label;
i turned the box over in my hand;
on the back it said:
“made in china”.

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