Winter 1996 • Vol. XVIII No. 1 Poetry |

This Side

for Melanie   Early on, your passion was The Nude, your paintings a delight of flesh gone to flesh, the sag and droop of gravity seducing our bodies back to earth. It's flesh we are drawn to, drawn from, you said. The last time I saw your son alive, he was fourteen and already you were moving past the canvases of skin and substance. I want to see through this world, you said, and it makes me tired.   "The roar on the other side of silence," one artist called this place, warning that we could die from it, from seeing the grass grow, hearing the squirrel's heart beat. In your new paintings secret folds unfolded, crevices turned inside out. An Ohio cornfield relinquished its still life to the rumble between the stalks until your own ears turned inward and you heard the yellow silks whispering a rumor of rain. Somewhere on the undersides of leaves, your son was lost, the only link a long-distance connection once a month or so when he called begging for the m

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Rebecca McClanahan
Rebecca McClanahan has published ten books of nonfiction, poetry, and writing instruction. Recipient of the Wood Prize from Poetry Magazine, a Pushcart Prize, and the Glasgow Award for nonfiction, McClanahan teaches in the MFA programs of Queens University–Charlotte and Ranier Writing Workshop. She was the 2015 writer in residence at Hollins University. 

Website:
www.RebeccaMcClanahanWriter.com

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for Melanie   Early on, your passion was The Nude, your paintings a delight of flesh gone to flesh, the sag and droop of gravity seducing our bodies back to […]

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for Melanie   Early on, your passion was The Nude, your paintings a delight of flesh gone to flesh, the sag and droop of gravity seducing our bodies back to […]

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