Volume 10, July 2014

Michelle WhittakerView Contributor’s Note

Meditations on Pollock’s Troubled Queen

She slopes across a Peconic boat. She weeps. No girder. No gown, except for the body of he who bears her name. No name. She cannot sleep with the silence of what should have been a valerian earpiece. She cannot sleep even when I send her countless sheep to stream their shanks into the geodesy. Nothing to sound but slit bangles to slave into black water. She holds well her wild off, for his body is blue-green, gray and Quiet as a boy who lost manhandling the night swamp despite she as moon-woman. Despite she in this moment She who is birdess churning up air as She gets to wear the death of puccoons in her hair hoary and ornery with an ostrich eye She unhinges mushroom like the crude toss of a duvet bent between her legs. Man onto woman Water on water Ice for ice See for the seed has dropped as fruit found to be wormed rotten, but we kiss her up to God, as she kissed him up to dead-blue arms of Kali. Pulse is a rain dance. Justice is a secret king in the wings. There is a Storm coming She waits fisted for and for the thrown sub rosa, yes, there is a storm she waits for, like a wolf monstering up, sheer red ballyhoo.