Fanny Howe, Indivisible, a novel: In this new avant-garde novel, Howe gives us the inimitable, fast-talking Henrietta, a filmmaker and foster mother in Boston whose ragged relationships lead her to religion and mysticism. Highly charged and poetic and profound. (Semiotext(e))
translated by Marilyn Hacker Nothing disturbs the duck on the pond’s edge Either at sunrise or at dusk Nor those others placed in the abundant hair Which spreads its auburn rust in constellations On the pond’s surface, tepid stars Swarming in the hemisphere of cold Time breeds like this too, spreads out Across the stillness….
It was Thanksgiving Day and hot, because this was New Orleans; they were driving uptown to have dinner with strangers. Ella pushed at her loose tooth with the tip of her tongue and fanned her legs with the hem of her velvet dress. On the seat beside her, Benjamin fidgeted with his shirt buttons. He…
There was a stare (yes, was) right here (hope it finds me). Right where the moon blared down its tinny gap. Prevalent predator. Originating—where? Smoke and opal, compressed to a null. Hey orb, what lives in that shell heath, shriek shack? Hey bleach-blink, sheen-gaze, pearl-pith—root of worlds. Splinter in the void’s eye, orphan. Got a…
I’m smoking a cigarette and having a drink with the only woman who’s right for me. I’m telling her a joke that isn’t that funny but we laugh anyway as if it were, and then it is. Ideal forms are everywhere, the chairs on which we sit, the windows to our left and right, our…
for Roger Erickson Language, I have wanted you to have a body that knows itself; I have wished you could sing in the tempo of my last inclination. I have wanted you made of metal or oil, or soil— I have wanted. I have wanted. Language, it has taken years, but I have made my…
Let me pin the hair from your damp forehead. Chinsucker. Unlearned skin. In the next room I think they are building something with chicken breasts and string. Hold still. Do not kiss the displays. Were we given two of everything we should want one more. Strap of canvas, strap of leather, buckle. The rear spar…
O small sunlight on the bark which faded before I could finish my sentence and so changed my sentence in its course, so change me. My course is rotten, I channel Monsieur Berry—who am not such a man. Then let my form of address or my address withal place me zip code not…
How exhausting it is to be constructed of a thousand parts—or is it several thousand? Even the potato locked in the darkest antechamber has a certain cunning, how it shoots its push to the window’s crack, how it sniffs about for whatever, dirt. You know what I’m saying— don’t make me say it. It’s too…
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