patti sinclair
patti sinclair is published with Palabras Press, Synchronicity, The Prairie Journal, and ascent magazine. She is the author of Motherhood As A Spiritual Practice and the chapbook red poems.
she has performed with the raving poets, the roar, edmonton's stroll of poets and is currently working on a performance project : the red earth women poets.
she lives and writes on her blog and by prairie and ocean.
she is currently working with red nettle press.
fit
Put it through the eye.
You can thimble-read, a sewer said.
Stole a yellow one. The rest brown, plastic.
None small enough for my finger.
Pricks her index. Lips as red.
Why are colours called shades?
Shadow my eye, keep the burn out.
Stitch the skin with snow white
Rage, mine's only tiny,
big enough to hold the dike
Have you ever looked inside?
It's dark, the capital pocked, convex.
red bird
of all things
small ridges
like the edges
of the fifty-cent pieces
wrapped in white tissue
his happiness grows like a layer cake
until the coin collection becomes his
chemistry
she could lend him
her ribs
his buttocks
being close to pink
and with red
being a girl's colour in the sixties
she ritualized buying each
a Christmas decoration
writing the year on them
could count on
those decorations
of all things
even dying
the light in her eyes grow
like when the red bird
came alive, flew
imagined the gentle beating
halocline
break apart
when he says
salt of earth
break apart
lips dry
not yet split
break apart
riddled finger
points at me
break apart
knowing he
feeds off rock
break apart
live in place
underground
break apart
like a bat
in my chest
break apart
sand I thought
was hard stone
break apart
under pools
halocline
break apart
fresh of him
salting me
solitaire
even so
she brings her bag of fears
trumpeted
infused
depleted
shrunk
no longer a back-story of wounds
but emersion
in a story
of change
there are no surprises
when it is this thin, the stew
and she naps
astral travels
yackety-yacks
with no one
