The Matador’s Daughter by Ellen Kombiyil
The Matador’s Daughter
won’t eat meat
says red is a sound
not a color
that blossoms into fruit
when she runs
headlong through the streets
when she peels them
with her fingers
Georgia by Ellen Kombiyil
For months, I painted blue.
I painted until I was drunk with blue,
until lines grew thick, like innuendoes—
not skulls, but the shadows of skulls
in desert’s harsh light. I was painting
in the place of making and unmaking—
everything spilled open—tugging loose,
breaking the dry river stones until
their geode hearts bled. I heard the jay cry
thief, thief, marking the air.
In the silence after, I could almost trace
the sound back to the beginning,
to blue lines liquid with light, I named
Canyon. Sediment. Layers of Rock.
(Ellen is part of The Great Indian Poetry Collective. Read more about the group on their Facebook page.)
More art by Tibor Csernus here.
Recommended listening: Only Heather – Wild Nothing
Links of the day: A-Z of unusual words