If I had to choose between snakes’ fangs and tigers’ claws to name the needle piercing my flesh I select the cat whose stripes burrow all the way to skin because this hunt— dangerous as an open wound— leads the seeker to my blood and the venom is already present.
At the bank the teller catches me counting on my fingers—the same feeling I had chasing my sister’s bike down the unpaved road. She would fall before I could catch her. As the road curved I was thinking how little I have to rely on; I should run faster.
Caught in the act of failing, used up again dwelling in those Hopper paintings where nothing vacillates, nothing is weak, and all the women wear black pumps. Their isolation—so original, it makes them efficient, but keeps them separate.
But consider this: a crystal’s structure appears only when cracked. We experience the same self when the I cracks and our breath runs out. We earn the favor of being by breaking revealing a symmetry so generous it bleeds. Watching a bruise heal from the inside out it’s the color that matters: never black nor blue, but shades of yellow and one hundred degrees of plum.
“Mouthbrooders, by Amy Nawrocki, is a collection of contemplative poems, an exploration of the relationship between the creature self and the life of the mind.”
Read the entire review at Necromancy Never Pays, Jeanne Griggs’s blog about all things literary. I’m grateful to her for her review.
Like the speaker looking for her reading glasses in “Hourglasses,” readers of Nawrocki’s volume are glad for the reassurance that “there is no failure/in blinking yourself into clarity.”
Jeanne Griggs is a reader, writer, traveler, and ailurophile. She directs the writing center at Kenyon College and plays violin in the Knox County Symphony. Check out her new collection Postcard Poems, available from Broadstone Books.
In Postcard Poems, Jeanne Griggs presents a family travel album. These vacation notes take us to iconic destinations, out-of-the-way downtowns, beach rentals, bookstores, art museums, and two-star motels. We hear the voice of a speaker longing to taste stale Cheerios and sip hot tea, watch the children wade in the surf, and make the distances between long ago and yesterday a little more tolerable. Griggs crafts a quiet cadence of absence to say: “Here I am now, missing you.” In the end, this collection helps the traveler in all of us realize that we are never “just visiting.” We piece together the narrative of our life’s travels one postcard at a time.
—Amy Nawrocki, author of Mouthbrooders & The Comet’s Tail: A Memoir of No Memory