A ‘she’ emerged in response to one of the Spring Fling artist’s work, Denise Zygadlo, her studio I dropped into on-route before the festival began, as well as with those taking the bus tour. At the time, she handed me a tiny folded poem in a matchbox drawer, words to walk away with. So much precision stitched into a moment, so many notions of ‘her’ woven into the work. I’ll be performing the piece within a solo show at Wigtown Book Festival- ‘This Impossible Rim’
SHE
Those shoes that were “slippy on Marley tiles”
In answer to D.Z
Her room is
A windmill of intention
a bone-cold calm and curved
whitewashed clay, and today
the work is woven into everything
She keeps herself threaded into constant wonder,
Falling stillness, sun bubbling beneath
The full face of it,
Her gentle eyes beaming
On parchment, a pencil thread
Stitches lace through lead
Hitching who we are to knotted cloth
Pointing to an endless seam
Her breath, crumpling like paper
creased into the drawer of her body
stays within her, is held shut
a handle comes loose
in her palm, she walks on
with the only way
to open things up again
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