ours poetica
Rachel Eliza Griffiths reads "Seeing the Body"
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Likes: | 164 |
Comments: | 10 |
Duration: | 03:25 |
Uploaded: | 2022-02-11 |
Last sync: | 2024-12-04 17:30 |
Rachel Eliza Griffiths (she/her/hers) reads her poem, "Seeing the Body."
Rachel Eliza Griffiths:
https://instagram.com/rachelelizagriffiths
http://www.rachelelizagriffiths.com
Brought to you by Complexly, The Poetry Foundation, and curators Charlotte Abotsi and Sarah Kay. Learn more: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/
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#poetry #ourspoetica #RachelElizaGriffiths
Rachel Eliza Griffiths:
https://instagram.com/rachelelizagriffiths
http://www.rachelelizagriffiths.com
Brought to you by Complexly, The Poetry Foundation, and curators Charlotte Abotsi and Sarah Kay. Learn more: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/
11 issues of Poetry, subscribe today for $20: https://poetrymagazine.org/OursPoetica
Follow us elsewhere for the full Ours Poetica experience:
https://twitter.com/ourspoeticashow
https://instagram.com/ourspoeticashow
#poetry #ourspoetica #RachelElizaGriffiths
Hi. I'm Rachel Eliza Griffiths, and I'd like to share a poem with you. This poem is called, "Seeing the Body."
She died & I—
In the spring of her blood, I remember
my mother's first injury. Surprise of unborn
petals curling red, then dark around her wrist.
Some fruit she cut, some onion, some
Body with skin & sharp seeds. She fed me.
She lived Us & I—
She held We & I—
She kept speaking with those flowers
falling from her blood, taking her
across the sky to death. I remember
her voice like a horn. I never want
to pull out of my heart. In the next life,
which is here & here, I gather every mouth
that ever sang my mother's blues.
She burned & I—
She talked back hard at god.
O, my mother, she danced unbroken too.
Bale of grief on my back, opening
into something black I wear. A life a flesh
like a petal or fruit or burning.
I've carried everything & I'm tired.
My mother survived & I—
(But she did not live).
She told me Nothing & I—
She was waiting the entire time.
How does the elegy believe me?
Together, we crossed the sky.
There was a gate & we walked through
the world like that.
She wrote We & I—
She was last or never seen, & I—
Brown eyes, without life, opened her
eternity. When the air in her stopped
& I—
She was last seen dying. She was too silent
for the first time in her life. The spring of
my mother's blood hot & god the dark,
dark beyond the closed door
that won't move again.
She died & I—
In the spring of her blood, I remember
my mother's first injury. Surprise of unborn
petals curling red, then dark around her wrist.
Some fruit she cut, some onion, some
Body with skin & sharp seeds. She fed me.
She lived Us & I—
She held We & I—
She kept speaking with those flowers
falling from her blood, taking her
across the sky to death. I remember
her voice like a horn. I never want
to pull out of my heart. In the next life,
which is here & here, I gather every mouth
that ever sang my mother's blues.
She burned & I—
She talked back hard at god.
O, my mother, she danced unbroken too.
Bale of grief on my back, opening
into something black I wear. A life a flesh
like a petal or fruit or burning.
I've carried everything & I'm tired.
My mother survived & I—
(But she did not live).
She told me Nothing & I—
She was waiting the entire time.
How does the elegy believe me?
Together, we crossed the sky.
There was a gate & we walked through
the world like that.
She wrote We & I—
She was last or never seen, & I—
Brown eyes, without life, opened her
eternity. When the air in her stopped
& I—
She was last seen dying. She was too silent
for the first time in her life. The spring of
my mother's blood hot & god the dark,
dark beyond the closed door
that won't move again.