by Mat Joiner
For Sonya Taaffe The dog at her side is less familiar than excuse to trace the towpath-glyphs, scry canals. Avid as Dee with obsidian, she hooks Time up from slow silt-drifts and shattered suns. The dance of midges describes angels' arcs; in the spill of oil an alchemist's peacock spreads his tail: pollution, possibility. Each bridge is a shell, cupping voices: herons, geese and shallows-baffled sirens. Ear to stone, inhaling moss-damp like incense, she strains for all soundings, shapes her lips the better to fit words of water, runes of brick: to call back and snare the green-headed girl who stole her reflection for skin. Barge-bedded, she dreams of letters in bottles, invitations to drownings, a tryst where the cuts run as deep as skies: a weed-snagged kiss and a final flood, wondering what lore or wonder will be released when her breath bursts silver in the forgotten air.
May 1st, 2013