ERIN
DRUMMOND
interdisciplinary animist art
We actually, not also
rise
she thought freedom, like performance, resisted repetition
yes, it's true
Even the rhythm of moons, circling forever
named wolf, harvest, blue
neither good
nor pretty
but true
I was there
skull. I tell them. skull to the earth
Open your mouth, your pelvis, your hands
she does, gloriously
who am I but a beast donning announcements
painting the bones of their becomings like clay
Your words touched me like rocks forming wrinkles in time
i worshipped those stones, never knowing I would burn them like cowpies and dance
Fire so bright in bleak winter
When Icarus fell no one knew he'd been there
No somber nights in the candy shop
They sell fluorescent bulbs, shoot horses
I offer stones
Sense will pour into me like sweet wine
the day they demolished the statue of men kissing in the plaza,
i found god in my ovaries.
perfect for drowning
what I can't see
most of my decisions have been reasoned with,
tortured and cultivated into sense missives
to say a thing and call it by its name.
touch bare grass at the edge of sanity
isn't this birth too?
Surprised, feeling the needle glide in time, half-sensed in dream,
quiet at the doorships of my ears
neither looming nor inviting
nor seeking translation
a metal shovel on icy snow
again, again
I eat you.
the way the norse sea wolf insisted on story, weaving his viking hair with seaweed and fibers of storm
her daughter melting icicles all over the city's lanterns until they broke
trees cracking across dawn
across a table, in the presence of enemies
empty tubs wait our nestled rest
I like it better after dark
when my chest cracks open and the earth slips side
pour mud from the marrow of my bone
when I'm gone
you'll find me in the broken bead, third from the left
bright blue
when the hawk lands
again on this branch and you name the moon yellow
not for blonde
but for the way she eats the sun