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 Fathom 2001

Cover

 

Inside Cover

 

Poetry

Gillian Brown (2)
Jessica Moore (2)
Annie Clifford
Paromita Admikari
Erin Whitmore
Wesley J. Furlotte
Aaros
Morgan Dambergs
Angelene T. Hutt (2)
Laura Kingdon
Sarah “Felloway” Feltham
Lauren Kirshner
Stephen O’Brien
Solange Hupe (2)
Nicholas Munroe
Steven Wendland

Prose

Valentyna Galadza
Neil Terry

Drawings and Photos

Marybeth Carty (3)
Emily Comeau
Jessica Moore (2)
Peter Herbert Langille (2)

[PDF]

Jessica Moore

 

 

Second Prize -

Picasso: The Kiss

‘my body does not end where yours begins;
there are no limits to us.’
noses pressed together,
lips and tongues swirl and succumb;
her one eye is magnified,
multiplied
into two, to four.
curls and coils are echoed, reflecting back
in the face of the other.

shadows wane blue around his head.
she watches him with
crooked eyes open as they
steal this kiss,
but who steals from whom?
three of the eyes are open wide.

one of hers stares upwards, outwards,
and the other is narrow-focused just past the limits of the kiss
(the kiss does have limits ­-
like the earth has edges;
like the human capacity to endure;
like - you would suppose - bodies have beginnings
and endings)

she knows the dignity of his rounding nostrils,
vulnerability of his creased eye sockets,
brow forcibly arching over forked lashes,
intricacies of his echoing ear.

you might imagine he is taking from her, is
the thief; her head is bent
at right angles back, her lips have been parted.
but look at his eyes
and the vaulting creases above them.
he is surprised,
suddenly alert,
and her mouth wreaths around his.

 

The Colour of Forget

I am the first to drink of the blue that still looks for its eye.
I drink from your footprint and see:   
you roll through my fingers, pearl, and you grow!
You grow, as do all the forgotten.
- Paul Celan (trans. Michael Hamburger)

You stride away from me, over the stones.
Sometimes with your back to me
I am able to imagine a deeper blue;
strangely comforted
in the constant of you leaving.
You were the first to ask me why,
under a sun-reddened sky, I never
paint in orange - never red,
nor yellow - and I reply,
I am the first to drink of the blue that still looks for its eye.

Now besides a world wet-washed with grey
my fingers leave white welts
on your skin, fading to red, to pink,
and disappearing back in.
Your flesh swallows my fingerprints
like sand into the sea;
your mouth closes over mine, opening,
your fingers spread like starfish,
and you step away from me;
I drink from your footprint and see:

I have swallowed the rolling heave
of sea, of our bodies entangled ­-
I have learned your steps
by mouth. Your body opens
closing; I am caught like
a grain of sand though
you are the more pearl-like.
Loss is exquisite in the blue
of this ocean: in the ebb and flow
you roll through my fingers, pearl, and you grow!

Like a twist of anguish, of wrist,
my voice is tugged back by the sea.
We struggle, letting go, growing smaller
in retreat. Our oceans do not meet.
You are forever at high tide,
and I low; the floodlines of thought
reversible yet irreconcilable. I have known you
as only one already forgetting will ­
enlarged set free by loss,
you grow, as do all the forgotten.

 

last updated August 17, 2007 | © 2007 Fathom Publishing
poetry, prose, and artwork © individual authours | website created by Alana Paul