Blossoms deep gray rumblings churn under torquing onionskin and gentle shards of silk while blooms of linen tumbling, carry twisted pink light In the gallery, the plaques say the collector called these exhalations Blossoms An article says the artist (did he go by Brad?) sought perfection which begs all questions about form and beauty and exquisite edges of terror and light and brushstrokes viewed from safe houses oceans away or words and sounds read from safe house decades beyond If squares are blossoms They are perfect petals blasted from cratered gardens; they are blooms of woven bed linen mutilated in morning light strewn mid-air where words and sound twist and choke bandages unraveled by sound silken handkerchiefs torn pages ripped from countless holy books Unreachable by hands in dark earth, mourned not mourning, blast-crumpled or sculpted into stillness, arrested in desert rubble From his safe house the collector called these squares Blossoms If they are blossoms they are perfect petals blasted from cratered gardens shredded linen blooms unraveling shards of silk silent sinking paper fading into pink and twisted light Mary Kay Delaney After living half her life in North Carolina, Mary Kay Delaney, educator and poet, moved to Denver, CO where she lives now. She has served as a Professor of Education at Meredith College and a Visiting Clinical Professor at the University of Denver. She holds a Ph.D. in Social Foundations of Education from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. She is the co-editor of Professing Education and a 2021 graduate of the Poetry Collective, Lighthouse Writers Workshop, Denver, CO.
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November 2024
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