Here, catch these five poems from Laura Kochman in the new PANK. They’re heavy or maybe not so much heavy as weighted, as weighing, from the images and the sounds and the movement, like bump-bump-dump. Like the first three and their if’s, a qualifying thump at the beginning of each sentence, a tactic both shaking and soothing, never does it grow old. Like the last two, their lovely pictures yet scary and sad yes, this woman and the sand unstoppable powerful, the images grown BIG. They’re fascinating, these poems.
The first half of “Circle of Salt – November 11”–
If the gray bone of the beach did not tease the sea. If salt did not form crystals. If a body was not made of water. If it had not left behind traces of itself, a white web through the house. If a storm. If a staircase. If plants could twist their feet between the cracks in my sidewalk. If the wave had not salted the earth. If water contained only itself.