You, celestial lept
through prism patterns
In the eastern dawn
On being that angel,
With feathered words,
Carried me from
That simple frame
To be embraced under
For Francesca Woodman Photograph: Francesca Woodman Words: NaRa
82 lives, she told me.
I was told to go to therapy.
I sought a mystic instead.
Centuries of soul shape shifting,
I want to get off of this roller coaster,
With the rails rackety wack ruckus.
The thrills are gone.
A mother to too many,
now I’m empty as a paper shell.
When I finish unwinding my body,
I forget about myself and
heal for them
heal for them
Not for me
Survival now, I rather take to the streets.
I have many atoms of animal instincts.
How many veils and unveils before I disappear?
All thoses homes splattered on the ground, scraping at my souls.
Karin is right,
we are hungry before we are born.
Human gossamer threads of thoughts,
access forgotten to the obtainable unknown.
Well, I can no longer wait.
In September’s chambers
Where I stretch out
Choke on life’s droplets
Feel the stabs across my chest
Of unquiet love, burned down to sorrow’s howl
Search for reasons in piled books
To be pulled up by fish hooks
Reclaim the joucned amygdala
But Lowell’s ungoverned course
Clings like black iron to my knife
I’m to blame
I sent the invite
And they dance around me
But never kindly touch me
They use magnets to pull from me
What they want
To spin it for their own glory dust
But tonight my back is turned
From these warm hosts
To lay once more with my little ghost
Photograph: Francesca Woodman I could no longer play
Poem: Naomi Ruth Waldschmidt
I know these words are somewhere
down inside me.
Some I held as a child.
Sisters spoke in endless streams
to flood a river.
No room to pour out, no echo to rattle in their ears.
Locked up for years.
My mouth felt like the arroya split.
Until we met near the December pines.
You pushed me out into that frozen lake.
My mouth filled up in frost.
When I spoke, my words emerged slowly, like icy swirling ghosts.
You were the miracles in those days.
The founder of my blue heart.
The day you left Vincent,
was the day I lost my voice again.
I long for my rattle,
To speak endlessly, while you smile back at me.
Photograph: Talking to Vince, Francesca Woodman