This poem was written by Art Curiim using words generated by Terry Wolverton through fevered writing. Comments by Art on the process of writing the poem appear below.
Exile
Now your eyes are open
Keep your faith
Citizen of a country
With a gun
The tumor blossoms
Afraid to die
Transitioning to
A divine place
Where will I live
My tongue stuck here
I dream of wildflowers
Of waking expatriate
I cannot forget
My bitter mother
A taste too long
Fixed in me
I am an exile
Across the sea
She does not know
When my eyes close
Statement about the Process
I’m deeply honored to have the opportunity of collaborating with Terry on her remarkable and marvelous dis•articulations project. Reading her fevered writing revealed things I did not know about her (naturally!) – our shared experiences, journeys, sighs. Consequently, it felt almost unsurprising that the gist of this poem tumbled so readily onto the page. The editing process was demanding, challenging, and invigorating – opening for me a whole new way of looking at my words-in-progress. What a special and unique experience this has been – thank you for letting me be a part of dis•articulations!
This poem was written by Terry Wolverton using words generated by Art Currim through fevered writing.
Vessel of Risk
Another burning morning when she wakes
a stranger to herself, some cheap First World
scent collected in her hair, victim of
the ancient game of bliss. Her damage,
no one’s business; even she, no longer
curious. It’s part of her DNA,
lost at the airport, baggage unclaimed, one
more in a chain of infectious blankets
surrendered by the side of the highway.
What is her name today? What is her root?
Which world has shat her out of its churches,
schools, its gangs of mud-caked children that dream
her dark remains? Her blood pounds, eyes trained on
the elephants walking west. She’s learned to
keep climbing, crisscross the green road, worm her
way into the prayers of women so
unlike her, they look for signs of lost luck
in the sky. Their regrets stick to her hands.
Does she even stand a chance? What baby
self shucked its careful shell, looted the rules
of privacy, dared the sun to reveal
fresh evidence of hope, swirling like milk
into coffee, curling through her idle
brain: some thought of more that drives her down this
swerving path to pooled water, where she feels
the same as tortoise or tree, belonging
to land, belonging somewhere, after all.
