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.
An ongoing conversation between writers and the text that they're reading.