If there was a shack by the side of the river, what would it look like? How big would it be? If we opened the door to the shack by the river, what would we find there? There’s no light in the shack except light that eats through the gaps and the cracks in the day, but now it is night.
My mother, teaching me how to protect my body: “When a man touches you here, yell I am a body that will bear a child.” How was I, a child, to understand that as the sanctity of my body. How was I to know to say, the body without that potential is also whole
I fell on an incline, talus, tibia, fibula, calcaneal tendon mangled, red circuits ruptured, body facing east toward a little town named Climax and then New York where I once danced in a circle of girls
Claudia Emerson, who died in December 2014, had come to be known as a poet capable of revealing startling discoveries inside quiet, quotidian circumstances. Her poems are set mostly in Southern rural and small-town scenes, moments in ordinary lives that would normally elude anyone else’s attention.