—Cynthia Linville, Sacramento
—Jeanine Stevens, Sacramento
Writing is labor. But, I remember
other work: sweet ether-dulled childbirth,
it’s rubber hose, gauze mask,
cold crystalline droplets—the odor, tannic,
like old wine in glazed bottles.
Above the Aegean, pitch pine
lands on grassy banks. I’m sipping retsina
in a sunny café. A milkweed explodes
this brown seeded dream,
kernels scatter like miniature hooves.
ONE SQUARE INCH OF SILENCE
The study of bioacoustics: monkey,
Waiting for nature, the first light
The rush is on to record soundscapes masked
by Arctic drilling. Where are the quiet places?