All posts tagged: The Interpreter’s House

“Sundowner” and other poems by Clare McCotter

The House The regularly-occurring representation of the human form as a whole is that of the house ~ Sigmund Freud This is my house my place my home first one I ever owned leave now you dirty scum she screams at auxiliaries gripping wrists and raging elbows washing face and neck and shoulders. This is my house where stairs climb roots to a crouching door there an old key turned in a raven’s heart spreads out blankets of bare brick a pear tree’s silver fruit a skylight in low rafters its pendant handle – first night’s umbilical. This is my house it is mine alone one tramps like you could never own she shouts as holding her hands tight we chisel faeces off nails ours wrapped in disposable wipes. This is my house, these high windows – a geometry of winter echoes dreamt in dusky corners. And over there a rosewood armoire its soul kindled with rags and linseed oil. In its lacquered drawers prayers and poems laid out like ammonites and white shells. This …

“Villanelle to Cold Psalms” and other poems by Jane Burn

Villanelle to Cold Psalms Here among the gloam owls, their cry of cold psalms I am treetops, bearing a crown of night. The dark is born. I imagine the death I would make in the strange of your arms, shiver beneath the void of stars, sing the charm of moths. Wish them against my neck. My skin mourns, here among the gloam owls, their cry of cold psalms. Dusk is a lie. This is crushed light, visions of curious calm. I am prey, twitching in uneasy sleep, a distant spire’s thorn. I imagine the death I would make in the strange of your arms. Here are the tendons of my neck. Here is the throb of harm. I am lost as one drop of rain is lost to a storm, here among the gloam owls, their cry of cold psalms. I bear a ghost of gloom in the curl of my palm. I am the moonlight’s gash where the sky is torn. I imagine the death I would make in the strange of your arms, …