Poems from The Bone and the Body appeared in Tarpaulin Sky Magazine today. I am pretty happy about it (is an understatement).
I’ve been focused on Doors of New Jersey for the past year, so it’s nice to return to the rhythm of these prose poems. This voice and these beachscapes still matter, still echo.
A painter shows slides of her work. From the earliest to the most recent. Lights out. First slide: Do you see that figure there? That’s my grandmother. Second slide: There she is in the corner. And there—there’s my grandmother too. The one with her back to us. Yep, that’s her again. In each painting she shows us where her grandmother is. That shadow there—it’s my grandma’s shadow.
But one day my painting teacher said to me that I was putting my grandma into too many paintings. Next slide: A landscape. There is where my grandmother used to be. A cityscape. See up there. A seascape. Hi Grandma! A desert. The surface of the moon.
– Carole Maso
I’m not even going to tell you what kind of asinine comment this person wrote in the margin. Instead:
[ at the beach / the echo of that other beach / my mother’s mother’s mother looks at my mother’s mother / and I in the future of the imagination look too / at my mother’s face / (not pictured) / at my mother’s face in her mother’s face / because the body is always in the landscape ]
Last night I dreamed that I was in a house on a beach with my mother, and a hurricane was coming. All the other houses on the beach were hit in the wind, each one a rhombus leaning, but our house was still. I was terrified. My mother had complete confidence in our safety. There was a troop of Girl Scouts outside the house, a Girl Scout Beach Patrol, and they were insanely cheerful. All the women around me smiling and laughing into the wind.