Tamra Carraher
Paraje
Closer to ground now
and what we call open
shadow of the cloud over red
mountain, river when sure
is like a fat fingerprint or a woodblock
carving of a river--
can I get a room here?
when the dog’s second ear arrives at the gate
and double rainbows take their shape
softly we agree
that the light-specter of your face
was what had made the change.
Influence
I challenged a spider out of her nest. She carried a gray egg sack halfway across the floor before I took another swat with my dustermop. There is no eden here. She dropped the sack and made a run for it but she was slow. Her body too fragile, her legs too long and spindlespeck. The floor was smooth and gray and cold. Garden is the paradise from which all else descends and is named. Her nest was clear and warm and sunhued. And gone. Paddyswapped into my dustermop. And she was lost. No eden here. Her sack was lost. Down a splintercrack in the cold stone. She went about every whichway switchbacking across a flatland. All else descends. The floor was bare and gaping and cold. There is no naming here
.
Sometimes What You Mean To Say Is Enough
A wish to fold myself in half
Curl my spine to torso, burrow deep
with my head, arms slung over my tucked tail
To be sleep-twitched and purring to myself--
To be, of my own body and the rise and fall
Of my breath, made whole by the warm there
Complete in my complete-
ness—sinking in like the first snow-deep days
Of winter, or an empty room at the turn of dusk
When the blueglow slats of the street-facing windows
go night. Resign me to the one.
Let the cell slow and the blood ease.
Let the word settle the tongue and teeth.
Let lip slip away, away.
Let here, now, be less than a word, and more.
After a Game
A sunken field I felt
The autumn sunset on my eyes
And cleated toward a twilight sound
And almost reached it
To inside a source, to wick
And waver it--
I took up my heavy stick.
But some voices called to me
All the larger, holding afield
And they were sweet verging sophomoric
I fell back and with
Their leaving, lost.
Under the Table Our Knees Touch and I Lean Into
my self
wanders through
your kitchen
blue-hymn
of six a.m.
we are on-
ly
here
beneath
the glass
a ring of salt
almost
almost
assent--
Tamra Carraher has published three books of poems and illustrations for children titled PICTURE/BOOK, Bluefish Haiku and Alphabet Book. Her artwork has been exhibited in galleries in Philadelphia and appears in Straightforward Poetry. Her poems have appeared in Toe Good Poetry, Literary Mama and Burningword Literary Journal. She received an MFA from New England College in January 2014, is an Associate Editor for the Naugatuck River Review, and has started a quarterly magazine called Alexandria Quarterly: www.alexandriaquarterlymag.com.
Paraje
Closer to ground now
and what we call open
shadow of the cloud over red
mountain, river when sure
is like a fat fingerprint or a woodblock
carving of a river--
can I get a room here?
when the dog’s second ear arrives at the gate
and double rainbows take their shape
softly we agree
that the light-specter of your face
was what had made the change.
Influence
I challenged a spider out of her nest. She carried a gray egg sack halfway across the floor before I took another swat with my dustermop. There is no eden here. She dropped the sack and made a run for it but she was slow. Her body too fragile, her legs too long and spindlespeck. The floor was smooth and gray and cold. Garden is the paradise from which all else descends and is named. Her nest was clear and warm and sunhued. And gone. Paddyswapped into my dustermop. And she was lost. No eden here. Her sack was lost. Down a splintercrack in the cold stone. She went about every whichway switchbacking across a flatland. All else descends. The floor was bare and gaping and cold. There is no naming here
.
Sometimes What You Mean To Say Is Enough
A wish to fold myself in half
Curl my spine to torso, burrow deep
with my head, arms slung over my tucked tail
To be sleep-twitched and purring to myself--
To be, of my own body and the rise and fall
Of my breath, made whole by the warm there
Complete in my complete-
ness—sinking in like the first snow-deep days
Of winter, or an empty room at the turn of dusk
When the blueglow slats of the street-facing windows
go night. Resign me to the one.
Let the cell slow and the blood ease.
Let the word settle the tongue and teeth.
Let lip slip away, away.
Let here, now, be less than a word, and more.
After a Game
A sunken field I felt
The autumn sunset on my eyes
And cleated toward a twilight sound
And almost reached it
To inside a source, to wick
And waver it--
I took up my heavy stick.
But some voices called to me
All the larger, holding afield
And they were sweet verging sophomoric
I fell back and with
Their leaving, lost.
Under the Table Our Knees Touch and I Lean Into
my self
wanders through
your kitchen
blue-hymn
of six a.m.
we are on-
ly
here
beneath
the glass
a ring of salt
almost
almost
assent--
Tamra Carraher has published three books of poems and illustrations for children titled PICTURE/BOOK, Bluefish Haiku and Alphabet Book. Her artwork has been exhibited in galleries in Philadelphia and appears in Straightforward Poetry. Her poems have appeared in Toe Good Poetry, Literary Mama and Burningword Literary Journal. She received an MFA from New England College in January 2014, is an Associate Editor for the Naugatuck River Review, and has started a quarterly magazine called Alexandria Quarterly: www.alexandriaquarterlymag.com.