lost river fugue

Aside

bedouin_books_lost_river_fugue2by Nick Bozanic

Irony as dissonance resolved by candor (from the back cover)

Published May 2013
ISBN 978-0-983-2987-8-6
5.5×4.25 in. / 49pp. / $10.00

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   [photo by Ryan Fish: read his article about bedouin books at Marrowmag]

About the Author

Nick Bozanic has published two chapbooks of poetry, Wood Birds Water Stones and One Place, and two full-length collections, The Long Drive Home (winner of the Anhinga Prize for Poetry in 1989) and This Once: Poems 1976-1996.  His poems, stories, essays, and reviews have appeared widely in a variety of publications, including Carolina Quarterly, Southern Poetry Review, Passages North, Salmagundi, Raritan Review, Modern Painters, Manōa, and The Yale Review.

Excerpt

Arpeggios of rain.

♦

Now I begin
to learn
how to walk
on water,
this delicate dance
of dying.

♦

Words live
in the world
and therefore lead
creaturely lives,
dependent for their well-being
on suitable habitats,
contexts which strengthen
their sense and purpose.

 

DISMEMBER

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by George Marie

Dismember. I want to count backwards from one thousand and have you stand again before me, my hand working across your face going from red to white.  I want to see only from behind, and from this view see only my back.

Published November 2012
ISBN 978-0-983-2987-7-9
5.5×4.25 in. / 30pp. / $10.00

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About the Author

As both a writer and photographer, George Marie focuses her work at the boundaries of the human landscape. DISMEMBER documents her attempt to sort through the aftermath of grief and madness. She lives in Portland with her children and some chickens.

Excerpt

Before I went mad I bought a house. It was in a poor neighborhood but had large maple trees. We thought it had good bones. Already, I am telling this story wrong, for I cannot be sure that I wasn’t already mad when I bought the house, and thinking of the house, its condition, I realize now that I must have been mad to have lived there. But mostly, at the time, I believed I was caught.

It was putrid yellow, the color of urine, with purple cabinets inside, and with each project we undertook, we made the house somehow worse. Eventually, when he finally left, my bathroom had no sink and my kitchen was down to the studs. The fireplace unusable, holes in the walls, birds nesting in the eves. When I was moving out, when he was moving back in, I cleaned out a backroom that had remained unused for several months. I found a bucket with a mouse family inside. Tiny, dried corpses of mice. Mother and babies. I wondered, had she jumped in first, desperate for the small amount of water she could smell inside? Was it an accident? And then they followed each after the next, to be near to her.