by cin salach
Spell for the Undoing of Prayers
Let go the hands that fold me, let go the tongue that tells me
the trees the creek, they know, they will speak me now
Let go the house that holds me, let go the family that calls me
the moon the sun, they know, they will hear me now
Let go the name that follows me, let go the voice that carries me
the ocean the stones, they know, they will sing me now
Let go the sex that begins me, let go the veil that becomes me
the ground the breeze, they know, they will reveal me now
I leave my signs of leaving spread neatly across the floor announcing
to architect my own body
in the smooth ache of arch and bridge the red belly of fly and seed green of water
gold of wind stillness of pine and stone crawl of light.
to hear my own body answer:
she is a wave, all the rest is negotiable.
cin salach has been performing and publishing in Chicago and around for over 20 years. She is both baffled by and grateful for online submissions of poetry. Actually, she is baffled and grateful by/for most things.
Part 1 in a series of 7
a man walks into a bar and finds a good view.
How are you?
his words rest heavy on the table.
I feel self-conscious as if I’m thinking this under a bright light.
he wonders how the light found parking on such a dark night.
Right now it’s pouring rain, really pouring, rolling thunder and crashes of lightning which feels out of place for November. I just got back from an appointment with my acupuncturist. While I was on the table I thought about this poem. How awkward it felt until joy broke through and I realized I could use your help lifting heavy things. A man! Between you and me, lately I have been tiring of being a strong woman. Strong like a man and strong like a woman. Chopping wood. Carrying water. Shopping for candles. Working to feed the babies and the wife. She’s starting her own business you know.
he’s been saying this for years.
Thunder and lightning are shaking the house at this moment. The animals are jumpy but I am sitting in the window writing this and enjoying myself very much. Have you ever noticed I have large hands? I prefer to keep them empty but it’s been a struggle these past few months. I want to fill them with air I have brought back from our land in Wisconsin. Did I tell you I am a landowner? Maybe that’s why I crave mud. The color. The smell. The weight. My acupuncturist said it’s understandable why some women want to eat dirt and I wish I had a big plate of it because I can taste the rich earth and I can feel my bones getting stronger. I can feel everything about me lengthening into the ground.
What do men crave?
by cin salach
The authors are, in order: cin salach, Mike Puican, Alice George, Mary Hawley, Cecilia Pinto, Chris Green, and Eileen Favorite. They write:
We — the seven poets whose work will appear here under the title of “Dear Seven: A Circle of Epistles” — have been meeting regularly for two years to challenge ourselves in the writing of forms and various other poetic adventures. Each month a new form or project is proposed; the following month we share our efforts. The resulting work offers us a chance to compare and contrast how we each approach each month’s “assignment.” The creation of “Dear Seven” was a defining moment for the group as we adapted the collaborative surrealist concept of “Exquisite Corpse” to the epistolary form. Over a month, a chain of letters was created, in which each poet only saw the letter they received, and the one they created in response. Then we assembled and read them in order, enjoying the surprising echoes and themes which emerged.