I wore my white dress into tattering. Quality thus expressed as expressionless.
Indent hit margin, margin. Release. I let my
hem down I let her touch my white space.
She held my scaffolding in her hand she held my broader border. Her ship
makes passage between continent and continent.
I love where she is Australia and wince
in the margin where we index how freckle on her neck meant place to take port
and for me bridge between the eyes is an ocean / area.
What shall we name her
Arctic.
No name her Atlas no name her
Atlast.
History of Sewing
The needle was modeled on the shape of the bird's beak and the sewing-machine, its hesitations. Diagrams of bird migration reveal flight as a form of stitching. Path an attempt at binding oneself to specific location. Flight a bird makes across the sky. The bird has a magnet huddled in its blood to give thread direction. ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^. Gathering fabric, elements, into circumference is a motion of gravity, then of ascension. This movement resembles the hem, to drag a line above ground, then back below ground.
The body has been said to mimic the act of sewing. In The Symposium Aristophanes defines love as an impulse that has its impetus in our constant search for a second half. This half was once sewn to the back of us.
+++++
Surface and dive down
what rising up erasing
relation no relation
I am the deer small noun
in the forest
finite and of the waves
crowd me in my face
and the leaves, leave
me to fashion myself
+++++
Envelope / Hem
+++++
In the distance some small figure is wielding us self. Who we are will be met with light.
The woman removes an egg. .from her it is made. .enamel and motion. .this is true. .have faith.
Faith. My fate speaks of. In the dark my name fades. Remains.
where seams surface in me. .describing what is inside. .what is white.
the self is surface lined. a broad seam stitch. .carrying over to place. .what surface gathered at said edges gathered a name, a named place.
+++++
Earth strikes the roof of my mouth; letters it certain part.
A stray scripture spoken. Faith does not act upon the body, as pulpit.
Is what gravity is; the voice in the vowel.
Certain parts of the body inhabit the world.
Teeth bite and bare the tongue, hemming the tongue to its home.
++++++
To be, to be made and structured. To be hollowed out and felled in. And ever on the brink of furthering, on the brink of rapture. To rupture. To toil and burn in the echo. To envelop. To breathe in and hold as landscape. To lunge. To lean against the edge becoming. To pin a map and all its edgeless swarming body. To swarm again and whole.
++++++
Here will I spell me out
the world
shucked from my own skin
the whorled
fields a corresponding
portion of bone, exegesis
I am framed.
My life in this band of hemisphere
the edge an endless dwelling
exhales and moves back into my temple
Andrea Rexilius lives in Denver. This selection comes from her book To Be Human Is To Be A Conversation (Rescue Press, 2011).
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