SUBJECT>Re: My Brother's Keeper POSTER>Sherry EMAIL>ranch@rocketmail.com DATE>1111425443 IP_ADDRESS>69-161-206-253.clspco.adelphia.net PASSWORD>aapDmzY55pzBE PREVIOUS>85128 NEXT> 85395 IMAGE> LINKNAME> LINKURL>

Hi Laurel,

This is very intense and beautifully horrible in many parts, and here I think you should focus. The bathtub scene is perfect. The beating of rugs, too wonderful.

Smoke from chimney--I like my definite articles so much, sometimes, I guess I think tweaking them is most important. I see what you're trying to do here with the soul from body, but, still it just seems incomplete and awkward for the beginning.

There's a bunch of imagery that I don't understand which doesn't seem to add much, maybe it's just me...like, wrings his clothes?

You can only visualize steam? I know you can see it, too, aren't you really visualizing the feeling of the oncoming of the attack? This is pretty specific steam.

Smaller line lengths would help to isolate some
of the sporadic imagery. I like the way it jumps around, I just don't like it all together in the long line lengths...

I'm going to mess with tense here, too...


Like smoke from a chimney, like the soul
from a body, I visualize steam
as it rises
from a tea kettle.
I hear the flames, the last breath’s rattle,
I flinch at the shriek, the piercing whistle.
His limbs flail
his wail swallows the suds. His feet bang
against the tub. Thump thump thump
in my chest the pulse of a second, larger heart.

The cricket is a wonderful idea. The bugs in our
house are always offered a reprieve. We capture and release. It's really weird when another person is visiting and they just smash a spider or cricket right in front of our eyes. We all gasp and they look at us and go, "What?!" *LOL*

I wouldn't explain the cricket in so many words. You're telling, telling, telling...say it more poetically. Whatever that means.

Okay, okay, I'll stop.

Love,
s.

: My Brother’s Keeper

: Like smoke from chimney, like soul
: from body, I can only visualize the steam as it
: rises
: from the tea kettle. But I hear the crackle
: of flames, the last breath’s rattle, and flinch
: at the shriek, the piercing whistle. His limbs
: flailed,
: his wail swallowed by the suds. His feet banged
: against the tub; I felt the thump thump thump
: in my chest like a parade as the band marches
: past,
: the pulse of a second, larger heart .

: The bottle tree clinks in the wind but the
: impact
: of glass on glass is silent. Mother is a root
: that clings, a weed that will not be pulled
: easily from the garden. She beats rugs like bad
: dogs,
: chokes on the dust, hangs the sheets like
: ghosts
: in the yard, stirs and stirs the pot on the
: stove.
: Only once, it boiled over when she ran out the
: door,
: to wring out his clothes and blow into his
: lungs.

: Like an onyx broach glittering in the sun, the
: cricket,
: crawls across the floor trying to not be seen.
: Or heard.
: It resists the urge to sing, to rub its legs
: together.
: But I hear the clicks of its tiny footfalls. I
: can see
: the path it’s chosen. On hands and knees, I
: stalk
: it like a cat then give her the bug for luck,
: but don’t tell her that; she already knows
: that old wives tale. She cups the insect in
: hands
: shaped for prayer but never utters thank you or
: amen.