These poems are the last in a series of my responses to Lori Ellison’s work. These drawings remind me of a labyrinth which one walks not to reach a destination but to reflect on thoughts and how each footfall meets the ground. Time slows. Details and options previously missed become apparent. A surface, for instance, is not only a boundary but also a texture rich with pattern.
Morning Walk
Sit quietly in the suppose of your thoughts
legs crossed, hands folded
Clear the grit and tar from your motion
If you desire to move, tread the indivisible line
the brick in the way as the way
the block in the gut a wayward glitch
If you desire to speak, turn never lived
into ever loved and warm the oven to house
without wall or door or thickening mortar
If desire moves you to peak, practice
the deviance of emptiness
the scrape and chip turning
each step into a pulse of tell
Well wonder between toes
root reached, belly blossomed
to escape with the resilience of found
Lucid
I fell asleep
I felt asleep
A dream caught me
wearing little but my underwear
I refused to further remove
refused to name names
to say the unsayable
and pretend the fleet anchored or complete
I dreamt the dream of dreamers
visioning the sound of the bled
There were no monitors, no lights in blink, no buzz
Everything moved – twigs, toads, hair, home
I ran down a street, spun until stillness
opened my pores and sweat spilled
There were daisies everywhere but they were blue
and cells trembled as if on a first date
I am not alone in this world
but a cathedral of my worst and blessed selves
