One of my friends/former teachers thinks that I should collect a chapbook worth of my poems to submit to a publisher. He says that he thinks that, given my style and voice, that I should start publishing. This is an immense honor. He said that the editor for the Visualize Verbalize magazing was impressed with my work, and that he knows that a few of the pieces got accepted.
I've been working on California poems lately, since the idea pool for the southwest deserts has gone dry. It's been two years since I was last down there, since Doug died. I put that time away because it's a little too painful, and everything was starting to sound the same.
I better get cracking, because most chapbooks are published in late April. On the other hand, my m.o. has always been to wait until the last minute. It's better than sex, really.
(All poems copyright C. A. Flory, 2008)
She dashed upon the rocks,
beaten into birth and dripping
with the tides of her mothers
and the coming of the she-seals,
her hair tangled with the pull of kelp
and the bulb-sacks of air that allow them to breathe
the air of this second world.
My lady is a clean bone,
stripped of all her supple flesh,
of the woman she once was,
when the song of her lover called challenge
to the other bulls, to siren stars, to God.
She lay then, in her innocence,
with the seagulls,
brash and brass in their screams
in the coward’s way when they steal her away,
strip by strip down laughing gullets
before they leave her carelessly
in the wake of her own skin.
My lady is a lean bone,
in the lee of worth and the refusal
to see currents that she alone can swim,
to know that the pull of her body
can move the very gravity of the shore.
She forgets her song and her soul.
My lady is a lean bone.