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Kerf By Beth Feldman Brandt name the space left by the groove of the saw wood to dust line defined by emptiness name what exists only as absence singed kindling curled into fire then air words inhaled understand quiet empty place at the dinner table bed the name that escapes me late at night still holds the image of a face what exists in the cut of the blade disappears when the pieces fall apart Beth Feldman Brandt is the author of Sage, in collaboration with visual artist Claire Owen, and their new project will be part of the “Bartram Boxes Remix” exhibition at the Center for Art in Wood in 2014. Beth works in the arts in Philadelphia, where she finds plenty of Philadelphia Stories.
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In actuality, Tempo did kind of idolize Denise, who was the sort of person who knew exactly what to do in every situation. That afternoon, for instance, by giving it a name like Confectionery, by explaining how aesthetic appeal and presentation were as important as the baking itself, Denise had turned their game of make-believe into a lesson in sophistication. Edwin was sitting up now, bouncing, saying he wanted to play ‘fectionery. Without missing a beat, his mother said maybe later, and she told the children to go ahead and play now, she’d kiss them when she and Daddy came home that night. She smiled at Tempo, and it was like Mrs. Peralta was beaming all this positive energy into her. If at that moment Tempo had looked in the mirror, she wouldn’t have been surprised to see herself glowing from the inside. Tempo followed her back downstairs to the kitchen, where Mrs. Peralta went over the children’s schedule for the evening. “No phone calls out, except in an emergency,” Mrs. Peralta said. “And no friends over. Otherwise, let common sense rule.” It was a little after six now. She beckoned for her husband, who’d just appeared, and introduced him to Tempo. Mr. Peralta wound his tie around his neck and said, “Wow, that’s a name.” Tempo, channeling her mother, said, “It was my dad’s idea.” “Is your father musical?” Mrs. Peralta asked. Tempo shook her head. “He was in love with his car.” “Oh, you poor thing.” The woman looked simultaneously amused and genuinely sympathetic, and Tempo felt another ray of positive energy. Mr. Peralta cinched his tie and looked Tempo over. “Small for sixteen, isn’t she, Suzie?” His wife frowned and told him not to be crude. Tempo was blushing, and she almost died when Mr. Peralta winked at her and said, “Small for fourteen, actually.”
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