Joyce Zonana- I remember my first day; after a simple breakfast, I walked out to my shed, set up my typewriter (!), put some pads of paper on the desk, and arranged my pens and pencils. And then I just sat there. How to begin? What to write? Surely someone must have made a mistake in selecting me for this residency. I was a fraud, empty. What could I possibly write?
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thin would-have-been-tree trunks,
painted red, white and blue
connected by hemp ropes.
Old women hold tightly
and turn their sides to the foam.
it's an open window
with words floating in like a summer breeze.
it's like taking dictation
with words spoken and heard in your brain.