Maps of MartedĂ
Maps of MartedĂ
She watches the storm from windows, each wet drip obsuring a duochrome image in her grey irises
ancient visions, reborn to refractions in the gloomy puddles settling below these dirt streaked panes
The key turns slow in the lock like stiff muscles condemning feet to cold tile floors in the mroning,
sunlight from which shadows are cast under shutters, and that warm glow washes peeling white walls
a security obscured by each dark night, changes and stills petrified in shadows, until lit by morning
sunlight breaks in, sliding icy toes into worn wool slippers as each finger works at unravelling time
She grips with unsteady hands, tryings to still the change, even she knows steady can change, still
She grips with unsteady hands, tryings to still the change, even she knows steady can change, still
what She isgrips still with keepsunsteady chnaginghands, around tryings the changing to still the still,change, and still even we she change knows andsteady changecanwechange, try to still still
She isgrips tryings to still the even knows still what stillwith keepsunsteady chnaginghands, around the changing still,change, and still weshe change andsteady changecanwechange, try to still
She grips with unsteady hands, tryings to still the change, even she knows steady can change, still
She used to write poems about losing home and finding it again about watching waves pull her footprints off the sand and drag them into the deep blue waters, as she held hands with a city she thought might never be home again. She leaves sometimes, until I find her again, now here, I found her, sitting under citrus sometimes lemon trees and sometimes orange. Her hairs in braided pigtails, tied at the ends by satin bows she saved from gifts. She never liked what was in the box, as much as she liked those simple ribbons or the box itself. She attatched wheels to one once, road it to the ocean
straight into the water and set sail.
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the marks she traces, rewrote those lost pages and words
for words still like citrus but sweeter lost for the bitter.
The taste savors on her tongue, sweetens a once bitter moonlight asi toseels its light in her hair
I guess that’s how she got here, she’s older now, her bright green eyes have greyed and her voice has become soft, but it has no less to say. She uses it to create connections and then to create maps, maps that are poems written in footsteps by those movements between moments that she can not give directions to by coordinates because those places have grown roots within her, led by the sunlight that warmed her palms.
I these moments to map martedĂ, my Teusdays in Florence. From Caffe Rosano to Meracato San Ambrogio, and to the locked door behind which I had to reshape my negatives spaces to allow these peices to fill in that hole that once held home.
Facciamo una meditazione piccola, chuidiamo gli occhi cinque respiri profundi. Ritorniamo su con un piccolo sorriso, piano piano, apriamo gli occhi dedicate the practice to someone you love, grazie per la practica, alla prossima martedĂ
This book was created by Megan Stansbury in Florence at the Santa Reparata International Arts school. Typset in Franklin Gothic Extra Condensed by ___ at the ____ foundry.
This book was designed and written by Megan Stansbury in Florence. Typeset in Franklin Gothic Extra Condensed designed by Morris Fuller Benton at American Type Founders.