"Evolution" by Troy's Work Table.
Sidewalk chalk wash, sidewalk chalk, chalk pastels, and charcoal pencil on 12" x 12" concrete board.
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"So our toes and fingers were all roots, once touching, / and a body sometimes grown up / to a standing beast that later came loose from the earth, / nails painted red." and "Only real life has slower zig-zags, leaving its burn marks on us," —from "Evolution" by Allan Peterson, as found in Fragile Acts
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This is such a strange poem. Flora begets fauna. Lightning becomes bone marrow.
(Who is the mad scientist / Creator here?)
Yet, in the strangeness is comfort and familiarity. There is a sense of belonging and a sense of home.
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Forsythia are to Carson and Yoon as azaleas are to Yoon and Peterson.
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Ultimately, I feel as though I have crawled out of the primordial slime of this poem and into a space that I don't necessarily understand but thoroughly enjoy. I am these bones. I am these words.
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