the poetry that matters

Cassie Eddington

Cassie Eddington, originally from Provo, Utah, now resides in Fort Collins, Colorado where she is pursuing an MFA in poetry at Colorado State University and also teaches freshman composition. She is currently helping out at Delete Press. Recent poetry can be found at Otoliths.

                                               hairfresh nightbath when I
                                               heavy knocking ocean sound

                                               hard echo
                                               settle slow
                                               porpoise I imagine slow

                                               waking flossy and pining-still in dream’s corners:


                                                                       dark derelict
                                                                       building, a T-rex, forgotten
                                                                       sweater, a made-friend damp

                                                                       rooms in hidden
                                                                       the elver in the river

                                                                       many headdresses         but which to put on?





                                               such a vague loving what bright room to like window view new

                                               you must make or do without
                                               of missing
                                               of skipping

                                               my this new view
                                               bright rooms my liking
                                               myth is new view
                                               right booms my liking

                                                                                         forsythia said to
                                                                                         remember the sound of family :
                                                                                         tall yellow strands against mute

                                                                                                                                                  see where the garden lies


                                               he was all mood moving about when waking but girls
                                               had been taught. she didn’t let a mood in, meaning the emotions
                                               of women are kept in drawers, proper.

                                               they were given these.

                                                                                        did you read the one about the orphans? / let’s play orphans.





                                               destiny translates into immobility.
                                               I don’t know how.
                                               So don’t ask how pain

                                               deteriorate, their frames
                                               falling-in on themselves
                                               or backwards, depending.

                                               Destiny is ugly but it is.

                                              the new mattress propped on its side in the middle room

                                              Fill can be very deceptive.


                                                                       normally speaking with lids
                                                                       nearly shut he
                                                                       skirts boundaries

                                                                                                                   don’t you see they’re not looking at us?


                                                                      afraid to live among artists
                                                                      wished smaller handwriting
                                                                      a careful mark to see-saw my mouth

                                                                      thought to dig would result in something new
                                                                      but all things grow in dirt, all words come from

                                                                                  other Pretty Space, do I disturb?
                                                                                  to mark in pen?

                                                                                                                                                  hard, to let the story go.


                                                                                                                                              Jan 25, 2011 Bookmark and Share