The centuries slippery as spilled milk during
coronavirus confinement. We're all monks now
one monk joked in a Catholic newsletter I glanced
at online. Maybe time melts when one's confined to quarters, staring at photos of beautiful ruins,
statues sans noses, some with only half a face, each looking as though, despite losses and griefs, she might speak.
She proposes / to me so frequently I can't hear other people / speak....
“the alphabet's letters are my tribe
and I mean to live quietly among them
bending my body into meaningful shapes
perhaps entangled with yours
using our whole persons to confess
what can't be, by any other means,
comprehended or expressed“
No one shapes language quite like Amy Gerstler. Highly recommending her new collection of poems: sharply imagined, beautifully wrought, and a pleasure to the ear.
Index of Women | 
