December 5-11, 2005: Rachel Phillips and Deborah Stinson

Rachel Phillips and Deborah Stinson

Deflowered Now immortalized, such an evening creped in blue soil, shaken down from white bough- crashed to flesh… velvet blood flown from cave, a hidden grove undraped, defiled… poison sprayed on flower, milk-rust dried at the bottom of a tiny cup- handfuls of sweet grain scattered Outlasting Moths A season of antiquity, the marrow of a long, thigh bone- Life gnawed thin by large grey moths… (old men, young men) see how light continues to stray through each worm-eaten portal (the exact point at which desire enters and exists the body) continues its journey long after the roaring wings of nocturnal insects have fallen silent. Through a Window At last, I came to a stopping place, a period at the end of a long nonsensical sentence like a worn strand of rope before it separates completely… or the final step into darkness In the morning, it begins again, the soul everyday astounded by narrow shafts of sun pouring in through a small window.

Rendezvous meeting at night on the vacant lakeshore road we’d walk three miles or so down the stretch of curving sand laughing while the moon smiled down forgetting daytime was another life best kept put away holding hands or leaning lazily against the other warm air blanket to the chill the hours before midnight long enough or not were all we had could ever have summer ran too swiftly out no prolonging it despite the ache to seize it now and then the rush of it returns on moonlit nights in the glimmer between trees. For Your Next Sculpture you could chisel me, one arm behind my back, the broken pieces of my heart palmed as meager offerings of friendship or capture that green tint of horror in my face when laid open and exposed; you could carve pain into some benevolent expression mold my feelings into something more concrete reveal who I am with your artist’s eye perhaps create an exquisite statue. Lessons on a greyhound bus at thirteen shuffled between parents I met the first man other than my father to disappoint me he had assured me he’d watch my case but stole my jewelry instead perhaps to temper some other woman’s naive heart to forgiveness while being ignorant of mine looking back I see I was not so much the loser as she nor am I so inclined to forgive