By Laura Mullen
Darkish archive: the aim of a depressing archive is to operate as a repository for info that may be used as a failsafe in the course of catastrophe recovery.
Laura Mullen’s fourth assortment is a chain of superbly interrelated poems that explores how you can effectively characterize the truth of swap and loss. Mullen pinpoints what's at stake: the opportunity of communique and connection—and the wish of intimacy. Invoking Wordsworth’s "I wandered lonely as a cloud," she pushes experiments in recognition opposed to their obstacles in an array of poetic types. Poetic tropes are measured opposed to traditional phenomena as Mullen examines what "witness" may suggest within the context of the aftermath of typhoon Katrina, the mess ups of capitalism to impact social justice, the homicide of James Byrd in Texas, the non-public lack of a mom determine, and a disintegrating love affair.
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Extra resources for Dark Archive (New California Poetry, Volume 32)
Don’t tell me that he went up in smoke like Daddy’s cigar! He didn’t blow out like a match! It is special being here at Easter with the Cross they built like a capital T. The ceiling is an upside-down rowboat. I usually count its ribs. Maybe he was drowning? Or maybe we are all upside down? I can see the face of a mouse inside of all that stained-glass window. Well, it could be a mouse! Once I thought the Bunny Rabbit was special and I hunted for eggs. That’s when I was seven. Now it’s really Jesus.
Later, after the party, after the house went to bed, I sat up drinking the Christmas brandy, watching your picture, letting the tree move in and out of focus. The bulbs vibrated. They were a halo over your forehead. But you did not move. I continued to watch, forcing myself, waiting, inexhaustible, thirty-five. I wanted your eyes, like the shadows of two small birds, to change. But they did not age. The smile that gathered me in, all wit, all charm, was invincible. Hour after hour I looked at your face but I could not pull the roots out of it.
Maybe he was only hiding? Maybe he could fly? Yesterday I found a purple crocus blowing its way out of the snow. It was all alone. It was getting its work done. Maybe Jesus was only getting his work done and letting God blow him off the Cross and maybe he was afraid for a minute so he hid under the big stones. He was smart to go to sleep up there even though his mother got so sad and let them put him in a cave. I sat in a tunnel when I was five. That tunnel, my mother said, went straight into the big river and so I never went again.