Kami Westhoff


BETWEEN SEASONS

       (a diminishing anaphora)

The difference between us, she said, is that an owl is wisdom to you. To me, it is death. A signal choked through a phone, coughed into the ear of a cousin.

Next to her in bed, my nipples consider her fingers. My lips and tongue--the
smooth brown of her arm, throat, cheek. The texture of wisdom under the
smooth brown of her arm, throat, cheek.
Smooth, brown offer.

You want the coyote, the raven, the legend of the seasons, now just cases of Pepsi and firework stands under the stained blanket of translation.

I picture her, Winter. Me, Summer. Skin faded or browned into one. When she is light,
I am dark. She translates me in the shadow of her body until
I am dark. She translates me in the shadow
I am.

And that I donít speak the name of the dead. And you cry it to strangers, chase it
into poems, carve it into stone instead of memory.

I trace the border of her body, imagine white fingertips slipping into brown,
carving her into the memory of my skin. A skipping stone memorizing water,
carving her into the memory of my skin -- a skipping stone.
Carving her into me.

Previously published in Madison Review




Location: Northampton, Massachusettes
Occupation: Teacher/ MFA cadidate at the University of Massachusetts
Email: kwest61475@hotmail.com
Publications: The Madison Review, Red River Review, 42 Opus, Gin Bender Poetry Review, Hawaii Pacific Review, Third Coast, River City, etc.
Awards: Pushcart Prize nominee







Current | Previous    Submit | Editors    Join | Donate    Links | Contact

Sundress Publications