ditch,

the poetry that matters

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

 

 

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