form of venus
Brandi Bishop-Phelps
i bleed like a farmwife
rich with iron
suds up to meet elbows instead of dancing
to public television polka on saturday nights
i meet myself convenium in cotton gauze
soiled in shades of Appalachian midwife
deep winding shades of poison crimson’d
rust down the roots of old oak
rich with iron
suds up to meet elbows instead of dancing
to public television polka on saturday nights
i meet myself convenium in cotton gauze
soiled in shades of Appalachian midwife
deep winding shades of poison crimson’d
rust down the roots of old oak
don’t cry back to a whippoorwill
whip-purr-will
i was told in low tones just before sleep
i cried anyway in rhythmic convulsions
late summer guttural responses
primal arching/a pot of beans on simmer
before a congregation of delirium
corded and bitter’n and shaped
a uterus
womb of craggy roads
screaming into constellations for life
they come if you cry for them
the whippoorwill. whip-purr-will
they will come and steal it away
i cast clay pots in shadow
scarlet strokes slashed into wet earth
thumbs to a spinning wheel as cornbread bakes
i threw them down reinvented worlds
broken and jagged and empty
canyons overrun with kudzu
snapped bones, early july fireflies
don’t tell the whippoorwill you know its name
she said years ago after evening prayers
they will come if you cry for them.
whip-purr-will
i feast on what’s stored apothecaric
cedar planks and deep dug cellars
jars pantry’d carefully /they’ll keep over winter
i taste vinegar on the backsides of my molars
dipping bread into brined cabbage
again and again just to feel the sour mash on
soft insides of my cheeks.
late peaches mellowing in sugar
i cannot easily reach.
they come if you cry for them
the whippoorwill. whip-purr-will
they come if you cry for them
they will come and steal the child.
cicada
buried eulogies
met crosslegged
sun tattooing august’s heat
jars pantry’d carefully /they’ll keep over winter
i taste vinegar on the backsides of my molars
dipping bread into brined cabbage
again and again just to feel the sour mash on
soft insides of my cheeks.
late peaches mellowing in sugar
i cannot easily reach.
they come if you cry for them
the whippoorwill. whip-purr-will
they come if you cry for them
they will come and steal the child.
cicada
buried eulogies
met crosslegged
sun tattooing august’s heat
Brandi Bishop-Phelps gathers inspiration in bundles of wild ramp, small tastes of alpine strawberry, her own Appalachian heritage and in the folk stories common to humanity. She has served as a theater teacher and a Poet in Residence and is currently pursuing further education in creative writing.
Art: Margo Hoover is a visual artist and teacher who lives in Oakland. She has been teaching art in the Bay Area for the past twelve years. She holds a BFA from the San Francisco Art Institute and a Single Subject ‘Art’ teaching credential from San Francisco State.