BETWEEN BODY AND KNOWING

poetry by erin bosenberg

CONTENTS

On Story And Its Falling

On Love And Its Weight

On Being A Lady

contemplation of the anonymous 8turned into tattered history 10 kisses are better than blood 12 a protest I went to 15 A as in A 17nationhood part II 19 words to be framed 20 smoke 21 remnants of a day passed 23 a word to this encounter and the story it has held 26

transference 30 night spills 31 to taste dust 32 I will try 34 when language broke up God 37

boxes for tearing 42nameless in death 45 through bent sound, through whispered word 47 for a lady and her practical things 49

you told memy experience means nothing

and the ache in my chest is not real

On Story And Its Falling

8

contemplation of the anonymous

her story was locked up and awayand only the stuff of storybooksgood leisure readingset in a time that makes all intervention too lateand a modern day story of lady or girldestined for inked up pages of tragic taleslessons to be learnedto be rememberedforgottenlearned, remembered, forgottenlearned, remembered, forgotten

her story is unreachableshackles fused onto each limbshe walks forward in small stepsthe shift of each body sidelike that of a sea slugshackles to be named her ownher shacklesan identifier beyond all othersa large wide coatto coverto wrapimperviousa fooler for the books of historya fooler for the books of history

9

her story underneath meltsthe heat is too muchher stories underneath meltthe coat bound and hotthe underbelly speaksnot muchand fiction tells the most beautiful talesand fiction tells the most beautiful talesand fiction gives humanityin its wondrous statein its ripplesin its tip-toed linesa shape traced for careful cuttinga shape traced for careful making

and what significance has been made from her truth toldfrom her sound brushed over throat chordsrushing through airchurned into beautiful fictionbecause with real accounther blame must find its breath her blame must find its breathshe must lie and waitshe must build up boxes to occupyto remember placeshe must lie and wait

10

turned into tattered history

I am aware of what skin projectsbut I do not pay homage to bloodlinesin blood-ties lies danger (un-assumed)it is not a thread I choose to connectfamily is not romanticthrough tainted drops I don’t seefamilythrough word, mouth, taste and arms wrappedI shape ‘family’so through image power is givenso this note I shall hold hangingfrom my temple to the back of my brainimage equals powerimage and powerimage and powerthis note held hangingwhat now?should I live as meor through some pretence of historyor bothand whose history would be followedI demand to see the listevery authors name stained on a scrollthat reaches from hereall the way around the globeand back to me

11

tattered end in one handfirst folded page in the otherthis scroll wraps over dirt and seaand where there is water to dampen and tearmen in boats stand talltheir hands outstretched act as a shelffor stained architects of historyno one can move nowthey become sculptureswith arms to acheand my hands are stuckmy hands are frozen and throb with painfrom this stillnessif I let go the scroll will be lostno one can move now

12

kisses are better than blood

I am a product from which hatred camein its pastback when at that timewhen ships would glide high with sailsspread out to suffocateto knock birds from the skyto twist people into bits of rock and stonemy veins remember their pasttheir heavy feethot still from fresh woundsI cannot knowI do not knowmuchof hatenot muchif my heart was bigger than this earthwithin itI would cradle offerings of wounds and others past livesknives and swords and guns and sharp wordsand sharp sharpand sharp words would comfort each otherentangling themselves until exhaustionwounds could make lovein this heart as big as the earthpassion would choke up in song

13

all blood could not run so thickmemory of the lives of my past tumble through these veins like red antsI scream as they scurry along in a circular trancethrough the heartwhere four windows standand into lungswhere new air gives energyI am a product from which hatred in the past camedo not let it sink into the back of my throat where tears and yearning belong

I do not want hateI do not want hateas simple as this statement may soundwe are from the blood from which we cameand that is alland this is alland can I not kiss you on the cheekthis one timethis one timeI long for itcause my lips are as soft as the sun and hate I squash in thin airI do not want the stuff of bitter dreamsand sunken longing

14

it is too hard at this point in timeyou may say I have a drifters mindbut these are words of a tired heartmuscles too slowtears squeezed from veins

we are just at that point nowat which all organs have lost memory of fightthey find it easier to sink into the puddle at the pit of your stomachgatheringa group embrace

15

a protest I went to

from the comfort of my own homeI watch as tear gas streams through colonial streetsconcrete and polished stone meet cloudangels emerge, running from billowing beauty and a sting in throat, eyesand on tonguethey know in their bodies a continent far removed from their own does not emerge unscathed from philanthropic missionsthey know as youth they want to hold an entire planet through embraceand carry through embracebut oftenthey want too muchbut oftenthey cannot conceive of that body with toe hooked and fingers clenchedthat body as a link to ideology pulling on a planetand tightening its beltthat was their protest songand it continues on…todaywith bodies that scream through streets behind bedroom doors and in front of stage doorswith muscles that tense up into concreteready for their fighttheir line of defense

16

these arms want to carry so much even while muscles grow weary and visual delusions appear through lack of sleep, food or comfort

wherever one iswherever one iswherever one iswe don’t know what to do except to scream until they throw us into their mad housewith the beauty of flower bombs, gaseous flowerscoloured and willing to twist open one bodily function or another

this is to the protest song in all its gracein all its beauty because that is what can lift us up to calmthat is what can arrest the soulwith the ache it makes at the back of throat

my hips sit and stand and they can move in line with othersmy arms lift bent at elbow with flattened hands that stretchthis could be a new physical metaphor towards the right thing to stand forI hope it’s the right thingI hope this body knows what to dothrough crumpled chants and bent gesture

17

A as in A they talk of a country I feel I have touched on my tongueheld onto in my mouthA as in appleI as in iceD as in dandelionS as in serviceI do not say these letters as they would be toldunifiedinto wordfor fear of implication of a dry clichéwithout resonanceA as in antI as in iceD as in deepS as in snakeA as in antI as in iceD as in deepS as in snakefor to say this in words maybe for the sake of repeatinga small child’s face on your tv screenwe are thereyou knowthe image has told you sothis space

18

as close as I will comefor fear of its glorificationin song and in famous peoples faces

19

nationhood part II this is a currency that is held dear between breathdoes it hold your tears?your ‘markets’ dissolvedo you hold tears?it crumbles hearts one rand at a timeit is not the dollarit is not the euroit does not symbolically represent a place where economic systemshave crumbled the worldits inked beauty is held within hearts made to crumbleit is soft and gathers dust between each ritualfor thatthis is my recordthis is my nothing

20

words to be framed

it feels like homeand these precious little things should be captured in glasswords to be framedwords that will fade their edges touchable through finger sized holesa rush of coloura rush of seaonly words can findonly letters will tumble into groundto feel like home

21

smoke

a curtain between the world and youa cloaked comfortfilled in lungssoft on skinwhere the antagonist has no eyesfor seeinga slow lull to sleepsmoke is to dismantle with beautya cushion under the blowunder realizationfrom tragedysmoked screens fill spacesin walls made for coffin buildingthey make you beautiful through deatha body waiting for ceremonysitting in imagined cloudwith campfire smellsettled into your final dressthis is where comfort lieswhile ceder turns sweetover flameboughs of ceder on offerand a pipe passing through mouthsis like a small lullabyinto the path that leads somewhere close to heartforget wax figure

22

and cold lipsbut remember his smellthrough sweet ceder boughs and smoke

23

remnants of a day passed

this place a new onedroplets of strewn laundryyou are watching somebody else’s storybut you are unaware of the ingredientsor of any conclusions

there were times to teach me lonelinessand times to notice the repetition in life

these times were marked by numbers, schedulesand the attitude in another’s voicethe pace at which their sound went from high to lowto high to low

this moment was marked by the edge of my hair and foreheadas it sat in the skythis moment was marked by the edge of my hair and foreheadas it sat in the skyand artistic fumblings

I will never forget these spaces in timebecause they are stolenand placed as art into a bucket for considerationthe turquoise of this table

24

and statuesque presence of this apple coremay not, however, be enoughto convince the experts or the public of its importance

these times I have pressed into the folds of a day passed byand the jingling of that key cannot be helpedit is evidentonce placed on the world wide webit is prove-able beyond my immediate spaceand the breath that raises my tummy will have meant nothingbecause the keys jingled, my pants were green and a car drove by

it is later nowtowards evening and the lulling of rolling laundry comforts mebut the quietness of my room does not

I sit still in the same spotit has been a slow afternoon with nobodyand I worry that I will be stuck with myself the entire summerI enjoy loneliness in the sunbut in an unfamiliar bedroom with vacancy sitting next to meit is eerie

25

and I feel someone’s hands digging out a cave of sadness into my belly

I almost forgot to capture the light on the boardwalkshameless tears were on the forefront of my conscienceI did not wash my face that night but I wore freshly cleaned pyjamas

maybe these times are worth keeping still and warmedunder the glow of a tungsten light bulbor wrapped in the darkness of a heavy blanket to be absorbed

I step into spaces filled with still airand loud voices that almost inscribe their text onto wallsI once saw white out of my windowand captured steam from a cupI wound it tightly inside my video camerasteam is so commonbut every time it is magical

this time could be inscribed into youthit is familiarand not unlikemany experiences

26

a word to this encounter and the story it has held

sometimes I wish I hadn’t met youin certain frames of lifeI will not tell you who you areand what I know of youyour shoulders disentanglewith the ease of the unhinged in lifeyour shoulders disentangle unnoticedand slip out of sightyour shoulders work their edges into mineand sometimes I wish I hadn’t met youfor the fear of thinking of it too muchwith words my tongue is not quick enoughto impress in an awkward momentwith wordsI will not tell youwhat I know of youand I know muchI’m grateful to have met youbut not always in this waythis way requires navigationof the best kinda navigation that rolls in my bellybefore it sits wellI hide these secrets in these words laid downbecause poetry provides the best type of abstraction

27

I am honest of your presencewhile my words dress up into symbolic lessons and dancing syllablespoetry requires me to mask you through magnificenceit is too quite on its ownthe bark of a palm tree sits thickout my windowwhile I write thisa chunk has been ripped outto form a perfect rectangleto reveal its centreit doesn’t know of youand what you doin another part of the cityit just sits strong to reveal its wound

On Love And Its Weight

30

transference

if I were to lay next to youmy arms would curl around your face in the shape of a half moonmy legs around you snugone graces the top of your stomachone is squished under the nape of your backthen the air collapses beneath the warmth of all of you and my limbs with itthey rest on cold sheetswithered by the tossing of invisible bodies light as the air that travels up and down my nostrilsif I were to lay next to you my warmth would travel through yours and back againand my past summers in the sun would have meant somethingI absorb sun and store it in my stomach for the empty space in my bedand the twisted sheets that try to stretch themselves out at nightI absorb sun for transferencesometimes the heat is sucked out of an open windowif I were to lay next to you it would stay still between us until the draft outside settled down

31

night spills

I could dip my hand into the hollow space that exists beneath your bedas if to grasp onto bits of spiritas they seep out of sleepand dreamsit’s because you are there and stillthat I wrap myself around these pieces of colourI imagine that this is what it would be like to hold youunder my breathbeneath my chesta piece of youneckarmlegtummythe more you sleep the more you lose yourselfspirits drip through bed springsand yours is almost drybits of spirit stretch their limbsand stain old floorboardsred is the colour of spiritit is not inconspicuous it reminds us of life and our contents spilled over

32

to taste dust when I walk I fold between placesmy body bends at the corners of language and tonguewhere the flicker of the unrecognizable melds into placemelds into what is known and solid in groundthis is where dirt meets all feetit sits in all country and sticks to all sole of flat naked footI can do thisI can do thisI can find what is same in all that is differentbecause your creases wrap around my body partsin places that have dust that I have never seenuntil nowit is red and it climbs treeslike lost orphanswaiting for the skytheir eyes closedwith hands that searchand find all knowledge of placewith every palm print towards their final destinationthis is what it could be to find your groundyour body is never precarious in minebut your land flickers under my feetand I must not be afraid to drop

33

but I ambecause I don’t want to be the only lonely woman in townwith a strangeness that does not meet expectationI selfishly pray in secret corners at nightI selfishly pray that your feet and tongue will move towards mineand that I can just waitfor our permanenceyou are deep in melike never before like nothing else could beand I cling to all the dustbecause that is what stings in all memoryin all photographsthatand your kindnessyour soft eyes and way of beingwhere are you and must I followlike a woman should door will you show your way to minea cool breeze traces beneath useven between this heat and wet aira cool breeze traces beneath usmaybe that is what will move usthat is what will find uswith endless invisible fingertips that stretchbetween your body and mine

34

I will try

I am not as good as I present myself to beto you, my loverbecause under all skin tosses turmoilall secrets are hidden or kept in trusted mouths whose lips are expected not to partbut they doso I must tell you in advanceI am not as good as I present myself to beto you, my loverfrom what still lies underneathyou must forgive meor if notor if not, forgivenessmy body and all that goes with it will collapse beneath marching feetbeneath solidarity protesttrampled - my body and I I am not as good as I present myself to beto you, my lovermy secrets are supposed to remain my ownbecause words are heavier with hurt than reality in and of its own existencewords cut through everything you gotwhile action happened floats abovea beautiful fine blanket of glassthat shifts its weight with each lift of heel and foot

35

that becomes smoother over timegentle in its shamethat wraps its thin film over this relevant bodyand is barely traceableeven through squinted eyesimagined transparent and always hidden below the glory of each present momentbelow the glory of each present celebrationcelebration of lives togetherI am not as good as I present myself to beto you, my loverbut you must knowyou have a secret you haven’t told meand our words will cradle each other through their painwith hands that lift each thread of bone laced in usfusing us in formationthrough smoked screenslimitless congregationand dances that are stepped in effortless timebreezy moments of joy we make through these brief times of obfuscationand I am good in your armsand you are good in mineand these moments of joy bind strongthese moments bind strongand time is but passing

36

and time counters no weight heldwhen our hearts sink into one anotherfrom pendulums swunghighour hearts crash and bindlike magnets that ache for another chance at connectionwhile, stillour secrets stay safe and hiddenand I am not as good as I present myself to beto you, my loverbut this is strongand walls will crumble through our imagined names

37

when language broke up God

I want to break up this languagetear it apartand believe God was theresimply because the word hasa resonancea weightan inert sense of lightnesswhere air can wash over itto have its way throughwhere air can trust its wayand GodI don’t even believe in the word but I believe in its powerand purposeI could have let you goat some point in timebut someone told meGod made it possibleand I didn’t even believe thembut I hold onas your word drops into a drifted danceyour voice is sunkand mine is of memorya voice to twist into yoursand so we hold onwhile from a distance

38

your body wants through digital glassand your thick airand the song of neighbourhood sounds seeps into my placewhere cool air wandersbecause it doesn’t know how to rise and fallbut it never needed ‘God’ to prove anythingit just thought of your weight pushing ittowards dustand a smile was madeand language was broken

On Being A Lady

42

boxes for tearing

as years step byand I know more of what I seeI feel moretaste moregrasp moremy heart is heavier with its weightand I long for naivetybecause in this world ideology is a dreamwhatever the form, manipulation or present day trenda man has sat before me and will sit againhis mind opening up hundreds of matchstick boxesjust for mejust for mehis mind opened and closed and searched hundreds of matchstick boxeseach with an individual shapeeach hand paintedand all for my bodyto fold down into‘careful not to crease the sides’ he said‘boxes are not meant for tearing’he said‘you may choose from these hundreds of shapes to contain but what I know is that the future holds you

43

in this and that and those’and like a magician he picked up each relevant boxwith speed and light fingertipseach spunand each glowed like a glorious crystalhe tried to feed me those boxeshe tried to feed me that bitter tastehe said ‘whether you be light womanthis be your box’he said ‘whether you be brown womanthis be your box’he said ‘whether you be dark woman this be your box’and I yelled‘but there’s a woman in the city screamingshe’s tired of your worshipshe wants her humanity back.’and we yelled‘but there’s a girl down the streettwo arms tied downlegs bent upshe will kick because she doesn’t need you.’and he repliedhis face red from blood running rampant‘and you reject my advancesand you dareyou with weak frameand you with weak frame

44

oppress meyou with weak frameoppress meI am the righteous oneand now I will preachmy body was meant to tell your future, your past and your presentI am fallen at your kneeswomanI am blowing kisses from the ground to your lipswomanand now I will guide you through your past, your present, your futurewoman’this he spokeall this he spokethis he yelled in angerand my tongue had no moment’s air to interruptand so when all tall tales were toldand his breath was too hard to findI leaned forwardand I lean with whisper‘what scares you magic manwhat lies beneath that growling throat is only a hundred little boxes’

45

nameless in death

identity has been watered down for mein these names they have called for melike a thousand yellow birds that have been laid down on the sea

a white sheet shifts over topevery wing holds anotherevery wing sways to a dancing weight of body and boneand my blood knows my nameand my blood knows your nameand my blood danceslike weight

and my name sinks under earthand my name vanishes in airit will not meet the throats of many

my name has country, body, blood, timeI want them to stumble over and see

I cannot get over thisI cannot let this sit foreverit is thrashing in the stomach

let my body fall

46

and let that body be beautiful through fall and when limp

the most beautiful

will you gather to hear my name whispered past dead lipswill hundreds kneel, their hair a silken blanketwill hundreds crawl, knees bloodiedwaiting for a name past lips lost

47

through bent sound, through whispered word

his handas cold as cut glasscrumbled from winters airhis handcut glasshave you ever felt violence in word and soundhave you ever felt violence in word and soundand on school buspaired with the cackle of kidswhen accent doesn’t matterand when whisper makes everything worseand when eyes paired with whisperaccentuates crowd cackleand when chatter turns into condescensionwhen whisper feels the most violenttone makes all the differenceand sound is incidentalas trees outside bus windowbecome a blur of stick figuresstretching for the skyfollowing winters bitter touchwinters bitter endand when winters bitter touchis paired with a strangers hand on your thigha squeeze of your thigha violent whisper

48

have you ever felt violence in word and sounda lean towards windowa grip of metal window ledgeall you could wish for at that momentis the silent walk homein woods and gravel roadwhere home is log houseon the edge of cool lake

49

for a lady and her practical things

I have left love in men’s handsI could notbut be fooled by their poetrythey could never love mein truth…their impracticality was too greatas it pushed love out of its edgesand I was left to draw practical thingsover and over our livesand I can’t hold all practicalityup highto make loveand soI dropped love into men’s handsto watch it meltand walked awayin kindness and for my own sakelove is left wafting love is left waftingbut it should always have truthand never impracticalityelseempty hands are left open and acheingmy mind is made uplove is waiting

how is a lady supposed to sityou’ve told me once

but it seems to have slipped from memory

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