Squeak of fishing reels
the simplest cast they knew
backwards into fall alas keep moving as best they can
in a recreational way they are able to cast
off the backs of working boats
and gather in pastime although memory’s tackle box
is scant
so scant they feel they can wade in to face the finned vandals
never lock oars or be flung raw as bait on an untested line
which if pushed cannot complete
the thought early or close
oblong silver box dented and ridged with long use
three layers fold out: sinkers
on the bottom along with a few flies
and odd lures
then rows of leaders extra spinners
extra hooks of all sizes
a whetstone for sharpening blunt hooks
rounded points that no longer hold
what I have in my possession
scant box that I keep
and keep as I can
with long use the box empties its lining snagged
in rounded time its layers lose their leverage only the odd joint holds
leader to sinker a few flies whet the granite
leaning the way families tend some thirty sinkers along
the bottom that no longer holds

by K. Alma Peterson and Kathleen Jesme

Download the MP3 (reading by K.)

For process notes, see “Giver of Givens.”

Also a rotation results when you turn,
replacement for what you were.
The sun, dealing with its satellites,
showers them with light and heat
and flares of blinding energy. We can
only observe an eclipse
through a pinhole, although once
I accidentally looked out and saw
the sun behind the moon. The memory
has stayed a blank on my retina for years.
As does my memory of who you were,
once, before the necessary
unfastening of body from self.

*

Energetically intent as through a pinhole

a sphere away. Yet,   yes : to bindingly
affix like that at some precise intersection:

arm of the body making “circle” and the self
snowed in wordlessness can’t separate

(even once) tying, trying to tap lightly
on the exposed back wall of memory
and (two) look for a change in the quality
of light say, it was a bell and rang (accidental)
or no, a curvature of devotion came between:

*

The sweep of an arm, things brushed off
into the sphere of the lost. I’d want
to replace the bell, which broke when it fell.
I’d want to memorize the loop
of some bird’s flight, circumnavigate
the mind’s eye, watching. The shape
of a perfect hollow ring, sound that widens
out into space slowly, trailing far
behind the comet’s tail of light.

*

Not to what began the joy ride but bulleted

a taillight when you saw my last comma
stricken from the triptych that’s what I’ll be compared to
on the downshift from the City of Rocks if I fail
to hear the broken ring traceable to the dashed bell
and the loopy birds that rumble before they smooth themselves
and settle in stone enclaves replacements for the whistle

*

or the voice—   reeding by riverbend—
which I don’t keep because it melts in the mouth of its spell
what phase is sound in now? period
exists only in time and disintegrates in the   interval
where the body   vanishes

by K. Alma Peterson and Kathleen Jesme

Download the MP3 (reading by K. Alma Peterson)

For process notes, see “Giver of Givens.”

No longer am I drawn to speak in simple diagrams
as my father’s notebooks travel with me to the endpoints
of a tangle he labeled every operation and eased
with friendly question every knot pretty much
in line with the finish which appears to travel westward
to the wilds of theory where phrases like rotations are simply turns
last modified momentarily by brilliant sun on new snow:
he said years of flying in the far north
gave him a touch of snowblindness
and something else he kept back
as he traveled westward in his small plane
through the wilds and toward evening.

by K. Alma Peterson and Kathleen Jesme

Download the MP3 (reading by K. Alma Peterson)

Process notes

We decided to try this collaboration because we are both sound-oriented poets, and we wanted to try a dialog in which we listened to each other and let the sound lead us. We each started a thread, and responded to each other’s additions on a daily basis, each adding a new thread each day. Eventually, we were responding to six threads every day. We kept this going for two weeks. It was a madhouse! There was no time to evaluate what we were writing — the idea was to push ourselves to produce a large body of material. Then we got together and read everything, and picked out threads and sequences we liked. We did more work on them, mostly editing, and arrived at the three collaborative poetic dialogs that we are submitting to Qarrtsiluni. (Look for the other two dialogs in the coming weeks. —Eds.)

1

For the world so loved itself coming daily into light
the finish line of any sight beginning over there
where it isn’t such a stretch to think of truth as light

and in so thinking come to see yellow as much a part
as blue when it come to green a grasshoppers stirred up
amid yarrow and thistle disappears for one prismatic

blink risen say the sunblind

2

Fear-fed by the firehaired the arresting flash
all light every center owes its eerie orange to bloodshed

ruddy self-congratulators brandishing a brand
new world they say quick to particularize
the earthen brown of famine to say whose bowl

of moon spills itself new but never fills
for the world so bled itself

by K. Alma Peterson

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:: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: ::

I’m in my element when the house goes up in flames.
—Amelie Parayres Matisse

Said to have the eyes of an odalisque
wherein an insect blunders and is forced to swim
in the reddened corners to a death no more
consequential than the stemsway of a sunflower
blue pigment in the cells takes in all the timelight
the bending known by seeing triggered that
summer when each week a brace of wood pigeons
was mailed and arrived the world matchless

yet burning Now! Opening her eyes is not the same
as being in the moment hearing the command
she begins the lengthy bandaging what a layer
she is one who winds up tangled

by K. Alma Peterson

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:: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: ::

Gentleness: Wind over wind
Suggests homecoming
A month in the tumbler does not to the bottle
smashed in the christening do what two miles
and a decade will do to darken the beery
I do and frost the floozy common and clearest
not one in ten thousand a chip off that rare red
glass to the dashing found in the wavewash

Dispersion: Wind over water
Ninety years and a mirror begins to spackle
metallic grey tailings magnetic as road dust
clouding the quartzite eye of the agate
the girl tonguewicks her mouth roofed
with peanut butter she presses her grief next
utterance ferrous sticky with riddance

by K. Alma Peterson

Download the MP3

:: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: ::