mud

for linda mcpherson, librarian lost in the mud in Washington.

 

 

 

Her Payless shoes, yes the ones with the one inch heels,

that clicked when divided, sealed, then abdicated. Mud,  how

it came suddenly, like an little child running for the curb.

You could hear the moose, wailful. The propane tanks

hiss, the two identified calls of a broken peace. Then the

dark of death, which is the loneliest way,

one would imagine. Away from the light of books,

the Dewey-Decimal-System that divides the world

as dust and fumes, into the

only three digits that the snake hears. Standing guard

is a sorcery of fewer nightfall's, a dealing with

the devil, Mellville, Mandela;

the orb that carries her celestial bodies by the arms-full.

The jaeger that harasses the wind until it drops

it's prey. Librarians are also leopards,

the mischief of eagles, hiding amongst their brood

the liberty of each mouse. I first met one in 92,

worn like the buttons of an elevator.

 

She would howl during lovemaking as Ahab in a sailors

belly, in that sassafras shirt, i swear; rebellious angel,

who in Christian belief is the resin; the red lips

admitting to light. Her aunt gave to her a

corduroy skirt to wear after death. I still miss her

respiration, her combinations of moon

and fungi. The way she picked up the lint

that other brooms had left behind. But how

much mud, like pancakes, can a country girl get down?

Not much, I think, however quick the

dark debris, transparent rich and blue,  tradgedy might allow.

Reviews

[Marie Anzalone]

I was caught in an active landslide 2 weeks ago; rocks hurtling against the side of the bus, 300' drop on the other side. We were able to back up in time, and get free, as this time, the land was too dry, not mud. The folks in Alta Verapaz were not so lucky, I heard, as another settlement was washed out at the same time. Until 2 days ago, my birthday, the only place in the country still getting rain.

I remember when this happened, dana. We watched the news with horror as the stories trickled, than poured in. Analysis of what went wrong; defining human hubris and underestimating rainfall's ability to change so much, so quickly. A lesson we could have taught you from mountain living here. And you, filling in the details, animals frightened into horror, the lightning speed at which these things happen, the final moments running for safety... ant making it, to that final haunting and poignant question.

And woven through your terrifying image of death; the sheer bounty of life. I have known a few librarians in my ttime. Like pharmacists, they know your secrets, don't you think?

[Marie Anzalone]

ps: tell me what you want me to do with small typos and misspellings? I sometimes find them, and want to know if it ok to gently correct.

[h d e rushin]

you can correct for my anything your heart desires my friend..

[Marie Anzalone]

"it's prey" should be "its prey"
"tradgey" is "tragedy"

[h d e rushin]

lol..I need one of those spell check, format jober-doos or your assistance..I prefer your assitance..dana

[Marie Anzalone]

LOL in that case, I be careful to include a follow-up message after a review, with little correctins for you. From here on out.
love,
R

[Tree]

Worn like the buttons on an elevator... The imagery, is off the hook in this piece, brother. There is a deep earthiness to this that is resting somewhere between shock and comfort, and love, ––– and repulsion. A full bodied poem, every sense every taste bud has been covered and every square inch of my shoes has been soiled, rich. Deep and rich.

Excellent piece. Glad
to have back tracked

Diego

[Emily B]

oh, oh, these are words . . . a new favorite, i think, so many of yours are

[Corset]

it's getting deep as quick sand in here, the name is Mud my friend, down and dirt-y, thick as a pack of thieves these Eves, and you there looking so innocent and wide eyed, well itchy well, leopards and spots, and ahab sailors, oh my! friend or foe or the schmo next dowh, you are brilliant brilliant brillant and I h-ate you...mostly, by the pie eating gulpfuls, dewey like the rainforest is humidly breeding sweat beads.

[W.k.kortas]

It's getting Ginsberg-esque in here (I mean the good Ginsberg, before he decided to do readings in Bloomingdale's.) It takes some doing to take a singular event, be it tragic or mundane, and give it this kind of breadth, to make it big as a damn house. Enviable, sweeping work.