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by Gray Jacobik, author of Brave Disguises
The elation I feel when a new poet begins speaking in this ancient and ever-new conversation -- and this new poet is truly ingenious, and furthermore, has learned to bring weight to bear upon each and every word, line, stanza, indeed, the gestalt of an entire poem -- such an experience is a homecoming for me. I feel again the excitement I first felt when the first poem of my existence spoke to me. Michelle Lewis is that important. Her imaginative capacity, her acutely-observed psychological states, her encoded passion, her clear vision of exactly how her aesthetic commitments must play themselves out in each poem, her sense of integrity that makes each poem cohere, are a few of the qualities I see in the poems in The Desire Line. I am simply dazzled by this work, and, truth be told, envious.
Silo
We crossed the culvert
where when the freeze came
the drainage pipe stuck out
its crystal tongue, the pond stitched
edges to earth.
Inside we pressed our
backs against the slug
shaped curve. Above us
peered one dusty shaft of light.
We were beyond
even each other's eyes.
The world lingered outside.
We felt the musk of our pooling
breath. You made letters with
a finger on the wall into words
that had no sound
or weight.
At home we lassoed
tapes around our chests
to measure ourselves
against ourselves,
stretched our legs across
our flowered beds
and when the arm of the turntable
puffed, lifted,
soared
across the turning disk,
we swam inside
that brief, tremendous silence
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