What I like most about Sara Eliza Johnson's work in Bone Map is its sense of constant travel. I never feel like she is stopping to explain her images or ideas, she's just showing you this beautiful short film she made. And you can watch it as many times as you'd like (the book is in your hands, after all) but she's only going to tell you about it once, and she's not going to answer any of your questions. What I Remember As Panicked
Adam Stone Sitting in the fort your parents built for your younger dying brother You pluck a caterpillar from the tree Squish it between your fingers and rub the smear of its was down my face A moth probably unrelated flies to a tree we can't reach It flies what i remember as panicked But is just the way moths fly Your dog will eat it or its progeny He being a conoisseuir of injured bugs and children He will feast on your brother's arm That he does not kill him is a fit of magic Your father the unwilling volunteer from the audience will make your dog disappear from our neighborhood to the house of an aunt you will never meet
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From Cassandra: here's the poem i wrote in response to sara eliza johnson's bone map, a book i really loved and NOT just because it had many deer in it. in the dream
Cassandra de Alba the horses run without their hides, tail and mane fused to muscle, eyes rolling and strange in red tapered heads. dust from their hooves glimmers in the ghost of sunlight and doesn’t settle, only multiplies, a cloud of choking gold shimmer out of which Columbia strides, her white dress immaculate, eyes fixed ahead like a declaration of war. under her feet, the skinless horses like an undammed river and under theirs, the country’s splintering bones. |
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