By Matt Robinson
This ebook is ready reminiscence -- reminiscence as a poetic shape wherein refractions of loss, restoration, discovery and id shape an ingenious reshaping of the earlier. In uncooked brushstrokes, Robinson documents the gradual cascade of occasions and characters slipping during the skinny membrane of expertise, shaping our histories. whilst, he experiments with variety and shape in a superbly sinuous writing. With this, his first booklet, Robinson makes a unbelievable debut at the North American literary degree.
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Additional info for A Ruckus of Awkward Stacking
Here, tonight, i can lose myself in your sickness — in the incremental warmth of the various areas of your back as we lie, together, here, in the middling part of the evening, so as my fingers skitter across your fever, a thermic memory of our interactions, i, too, am engulfed by the freckling blaze, its moist heat, and your heavy wash of breath is a sort of chesty crackling that, in its sounding, becomes a combination, a consumption, of it all: this biology, this us. -37 the morning as continuation —form.
Last night you told me of the moment when, at night, walking through that wooded path — its ripped sweater elbow tangle of darkened roots and branches — on the way back from the movies, the two of you were startled by the instant shadow of a rabbit as it, too, returned or left, of how you reacted by hoarding air (in, perhaps, a confused attempt at flight), and now, later, with the early stitching of our sleep barely, and poorly, lit by the morning sun, i, too, am caught off-guard by the brief animal of your finger as it tracks the crooked direction of my arm.
And this vertical syntax: it serves to discount the peripheral — to ignore where i am going; to confuse why i am going, and whether you'll be there to read this, at sunrise — landing, a recognition, i see. 42 tnopter flight — after M. Ondaatje's "Flight" (though he made no mention of it) — here it is early morning, and in the pink half-light: an air nova dc-8. and there is no seventy-year-old lady, there are no braids, and although the cabin is half-dark, half-way between fredericton and halifax, there is no long white hair, my mother has no hair, or little, the pins (and tubes) not in her mouth, but arms, and what with the nurses and relatives, i wait two hours before reaching — turning instead to pages, to the seeming permanence of print; to a woman who leaves only on my terms, when i am finished; only when i close my eyes or turn a page.