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A Flower Bursting From
My Head © Dee Rimbaud


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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Cathie Sandstrom lives in Sierra Madre up against the San Gabriels. Her work as appeared widely in journals and anthologies: the Getty Museum's collection of artists' books houses her poetry.

"For me, Magical Realism attempts to recreate in language those strange experiences that combine different layers of consciousness and/or time. While the experiences are real, they are not necessarily logical. One is pushed to explore and acknowledge the different ways we have of knowing, ways of perceiving the world and especially mystery, using other than the five common paths of sensing."

WHAT THE BODY HOUSES

Once in York Minster, in light flooding colorless and pure from the clerestory high above me, I stood at the base of a column, followed the ribs of stone upward, felt myself lifted, picking up speed until I reached the apex. Here, the eye takes the heart in its beak, flies up with it, homing to light.

From the mountain cabin on Cherry Creek, the clearing is the first chance to see the night sky, so I offer to take out the trash. My sandals beat hollow across the wooden porch. Pine needles break fine underfoot. Cedars close ranks; branches ladder up, mesh to veil the constellations. Out in the open, I raise my eyes to the Big Dipper wheeling glittery and huge before me, and the rush is immediate. Something from my ribcage breaks free, leaps up and out, streaking skyward. In half a heartbeat, I seize the trailing end, haul it back, cram it into my mouth like a mantis devouring a bright-winged creature.

Stupid with fear, I stand clay-footed, disoriented. What is this thing so eager to escape? A braver self? All I thought in the moment of its leaving was if I go, will I be able to get back? Blunted by failed courage, my mind stumbles, mourns this missed invitation to soar. Still, each time, closer to the edge.

[from Periphery 2005: The Living Landscape]

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This page last updated 2007.11.27