She Calls Me Civetta Her love is not loud, but beckons, as hot skies hang weighted in July. Across the Ohio border, roads tangle with gravel beneath tires, clatterpinging against wheel wells. After climbing steep switchbacks, she will hold my hand at twilight, walking back acres along the creek, narrating her land spirit. Crank up the car windows as dust streams from the station wagon’s belly. We will find textures of ancient marine life within Indiana limestone: Trilobites and Brachiopods, outlining each baffling skeleton with our fingers. Whiffs of sweet, sunbaked hay mix with billows of metallic dust. One more turn to go, past weathered signs—Hilltop Farm, AKC Registered Collies. The swollen hill captivates, barely wide enough. Gritty rocks tumble left, as the car interior dapples darker under canopies of unspoiled trees. We will sit on scratchy woolen plaid blankets, tenderly shy, absorbing her sentience. No relief, sticking to my seat in pastel seersucker shorts. Until the very last bend, back wheel of the car slips, heart thumps right in my throat, sunshine strobes at the clearing, statuesque corn on one side, red brick farmhouse ahead. At the crest of the hill, long armed iron gates and a last hand-painted board that says Honk, igniting a chorus of barking and high-pitched yelps. Streaks of gold and white, black and white, behind gates that drag dirt in an arc, bolted onto worn gray barns. We come to the altar and will linger until lightening bugs hover, streaming Milky Way beams on us. Rolling down windows as freshly cut grass jumps in my nose, reaching hands to wave hello. Counting all life as a gathering of gifts —her constant canon like moon crescents gold. These are all God’s creatures. Gossip with breeze, leave apples where they fall, at dawn, the deer come. Stitched in Solitude I reach around to peel layers of hot sewn patchwork morphing. Husk tailored to each acquaintance unique, seemingly unending, blistering bubbling fabric drapes over stuck skin. Kaleidoscope threads clamor. Collar and yoke ornate with buttons of bone weigh down to paralyze muscles stretched. Thin sheath varnished chokes connecting and expanding, pulls out lingering gasps from the lungs. Sigh capes ceaseless lament. Vast inner pockets brush steel wool to satin flesh. Scars and scabs designed to be hidden and quiet become shifty and daring blow away then return in night through inflexible cobalt seams. Cloaked, frayed hemmed edges surrender. Torment sirens my solitary robe to bolt and release stoking this hateful pattern. Ashamed to reveal smoky familiar membranes, encased years unfurl as it envelops, fitting into cavernous holes. Grief pushes me small.
ckSlack currently lives in Pittsburgh, PA and began writing through her journals as a young woman with a life-long love of words, nature and Thanksgiving dinner with her family. She is influenced by Renaissance and Surrealist art and inspired by classical and alternative music.
These two pieces are so beautiful. Such specific imagery that completely gives you a sense of time and place. It was nostalgic and modern all at once. Wonderful.
Gorgeous verse. Lush images throughout. The poet's words take my heart on a sometimes windswept, sometimes sunlit journey through emotion and experience. Stunning work. ~~Lola