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In a remote village in a country
where I do not belong I go walking toward the familiar It was a night like before and you were as far away as ever—the flesh of the hip to the bone Slow enough that I thought they were boulders, the white herd-- twelve more full moons, holding the daylight through the dark-- heaving their great chests watching me walk until sleep Charolais. I learned their name so I had something to tell you when you called And when you did I forgot and thought only about your forehead, a thirteenth moon Until the white cows came, I had forgotten about the eve of your wedding, when you took me out into the pasture, away from the man that would be your husband Even in the open lands of Kentucky some women are invisible Two broke apart from the herd, charged at us. Great beasts of purpose, and mine? I couldn’t know it then (You were saying in other lives we had been married before, we would marry again) Your front teeth, one steep step down to the rest of the mouth where there was silence and then a-cha! You cast a spell over their path, the pair lumbered around us and beyond, your body square to them and unwavering |
Janell Tryon is a researcher and artist based in Oakland, CA. Her most recent poetry collection, The Sea Runs East to West, explores themes of matrilineage, sacrament, and grief. These poems emerged alongside the creation of her video-installation piece “weft/threadbare,” which examines the ritual and role of hair in the lives of her participants. She developed both projects while attending residencies at CAMAC Art Centre and Wormfarm Institute in 2017.
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