Perception in the body
moves like a bevy of bees: you know all
over at once. You realize what you actually feel
has no language; absently pulled to that feral
flutter of insects, a stir of magpies, how
one bone of the soil turns up,
night root taut inside
its dirt. In the cold of kitchen
I made out a ticking sound, swiveled
& gazed with the light, thinking
about nothing. But I recognized the smooth surface
of cupboard cedar like waves, weaving,
the true curving of branches against
wind, over; how lovely
it was. I thought
this is what precedes
sudden disaster:
our second brain that cannot
talk, hears the ticking,
swivels to it with the light
& we look, for the first or final
time we look.
moves like a bevy of bees: you know all
over at once. You realize what you actually feel
has no language; absently pulled to that feral
flutter of insects, a stir of magpies, how
one bone of the soil turns up,
night root taut inside
its dirt. In the cold of kitchen
I made out a ticking sound, swiveled
& gazed with the light, thinking
about nothing. But I recognized the smooth surface
of cupboard cedar like waves, weaving,
the true curving of branches against
wind, over; how lovely
it was. I thought
this is what precedes
sudden disaster:
our second brain that cannot
talk, hears the ticking,
swivels to it with the light
& we look, for the first or final
time we look.
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Grace Lynn is an emerging painter who lives with a chronic illness. Her work explores the intersections between faith, the natural world, art and the body. In her spare time, Grace enjoys listening to Bob Dylan, reading suspense novels and investigating absurd angles of art history.
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