Marianna Wright's fiction, nonfiction and prose poetry have appeared or are forthcoming in 13th Moon, New Novel Review, Literal Latte, Collages and Bricolages, Poetry Motel, Mobius, New Directions for Women, and the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences' Arts and Letters Annual Conference Publication. In 1995, one of her stories was nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and she was a finalist in the 1996 Heekin Group Foundation's Tara Fellowship for Short Fiction. She received an M.A. in English from the University of Washington.

The Sea By Night

If you were to give me your mouth, arcing blue,
sparking out of the range of safe estimation,
boundaries unlimited by pounding copper, or
that same sweat I once saw memorizing the shape of
your cheekbone, your breath running golden and cold, and if our
bodies balanced, magnetized by no phosphorescent rule but
the sea's cormorant-tipped night, waves pointed as eyes, and if
I then emerged, thin from recognition, skin and roped hair bleached into
this night that whispers and roars, "This is where we came from,"
blue and naked as salt foaming between eye-slinked surges,
my hips coldly birthing a hot-starred sea; if you would
suffer northern light, survive the touch of a split cloud, waking
before the clawed realization takes and holds you with iron arms of fire,
there would be nothing we wouldn't know, everything
sought then killed for,
in that final, brief moment: sapphire-dark, marrow-deep,
a wing-fluttering silence between us.

This poem first appeared in Word of Mouth. Copyright by Marianna Wright

For A Weatherman's Son

In my memory of a city of rain, the watchful water of your eyes,
I find hope still lies in a whisper: "I could look at your face forever."

Now, in the absence of rain, I collect icons
of flowing blue and silver against this drought, this heat:

drifting, beaded earrings,
a scarf with a fringe like raindrops.

Now, in your absence, I lift a string of glistening azure glass
against the hammer of summer's hot light.

As though hope could weave sapphire into strong ropes,
fashion a hard deck from beaten silver, drape crystal and thin cotton into sails.

As though the strength of memory could shape blowing dust into billowing, wet wind,
float a thin ship down this river of wet sun,
and guide a vessel of hot mist back to cool grey light.

As though my desire for you could be quenched
simply by returning to those shores, where I might hear your voice
in a cantilena of blue, murmuring rain.

Copyright by Marianna Wright

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