My brother poet and I are working together on a series about a hermit character, who sort of has two personalities, and who lives in the Midwest. Mostly it’s an idea to get us both writing. He’s been posting some cool stuff on his blog, and I’ve been stealing his lines and pollinating my poems with them to create echoes. We’re hoping that the pieces will work together as a whole, but if not, it will still be a fun exercise.
Lines from “Some Kind of Plant Name”:
Under my own skin as light, not even Thumbelina can express the wind on the edge of the board on which I am the only chess piece. A white horse, I should say. That is how I see myself. That is how to describe smallness, its checkered landscape.