She’s
an erudite, unmerciful—the margins dripping notes.
I
read her words, to know for genius, to feel for clemency. The
rage
of every line, nested neatly, the roots of preciousness. I call
forth
a tear, ever to gain life, to extract a new concept. There’s
trenchant
airs, wrapped in academia, the sultry of wittiness. I’m
caught
in webs, lost in nouns, whispering, “Damn.” The
paintings
press against reality
folding
through falling
as beige as heartsores. I feel her give—this kef
torn for living, quilted in
longsuffering;
but never unsculpted
reaching for reason, to champion
logic. The
scholarship bleeds—through parted
humanity
a leading contemporary. She cries a fever, a
passion
for sculpting, the voice of lecturers. There’s welter
buried
in joys, the courage of rivers; where hearts are
claret, thoughts
are purple—a village of visions!
