Cornelia Abma

amends

artist booksolander box containing a poem on a spool

“I grab a memory and turn it over in my mind, feeling for the seam that runs through it:A blue hand-me-down bicycle. My long, bruised legs and the flex of boyish muscles there. The pavement still breathing heat into the night as the dark fields open up beside me. I close my eyes. The cicada swell is given and taken and with each downhill I become more and more aware that I’m in the jaws of some great beast waiting to swallow me whole. I take inventory of the loss, the hope, my own yellow hair. My heart is the wet red yolk at the centre of it all. ”