would you look at the way we dance?

This collaboration is a loooooooong time in the making. I was flattered when my dear friend, Caitlin, wordsmith and BIG TIME DYNAMO,
asked me to illustrate one of her poems almost a year and a half ago. This lady is super talented, I mean she's a fucking POWERHOUSE. (Excuse my French, but it's necessary for the emphasis. She's just that crazy good.) I don't know anyone who is as righteous and motivated, hardworking or generous as Caits. She is also a striking designer/visual artist, so you can imagine what an honor it is to try interpret her vision. I am a lucky girl to have a friend like her in my life.



Watercolor and gouache, 9x12". 2010.

For Baraka

the days run into each other like moving pictures
an arm becomes a pinwheel becomes animal
swinging from vine in a jungle, no, Baobab tree,
perhaps its the wine but there is a swarm of
monstrous bees exiting the hive we once called
your mouth, no, its your tongue sliding across
white snow, a cheek, a belly, soft pads of each finger
just so

I am not sure your name is really your name
I am not sure I care to know the truth of things
just tell me a story, fantastical, about two penguins
in love that bear our fake-names like crowns
tell me the secret you keep under socks
who is the girl in your ribcage?
she is broken, too. We are all a little broken.
We admit to this. But look how our hearts grow
watermelon seeds and reproduce like rabbits
look at all the thumping drumming from our flesh
the skin taut and stretched, would you look
at the way we dance?

What is a pint of blood for the offering
the sky is calling and we musn't refuse
what are your wings made of?
pheasant or peacock or dove, you crack wide
open a grin, say, simple pigeon and
I understand your magic all at once
like a rush to the mouth, like a dive

Meet me at the top of a bell tower with
your notebook, or a dark cave lit by cigarette
you will fumble to catch my lips, the night's on fire
as the camera rolls behind an old bowling alley
I'll be in a dress from Africa, wearing sin
like rock and roll, I find you underneath
my fingernails, this dirt, boy, you've been wearing
the same shirt for days but smell like summer under
your sweater. The rain never comes here
but your song sounds like home.