Scrimshaw, JW Burns

Diane Corson, Handmade Paper Bowl





A boat carved in bone,
Frozen waves tongues who lost their minds.
A sleeping hull healed by emptiness.
When color isn’t allowed to feed rub your thumb into her hollow cheek.
The whalebone learned light from touch alone;
unfeeling as sun on her vacant breasts.
These sails immune to large hands of wind.

JW Burns


Review by Jared Pearce

The way the images build the poem’s emptiness is wonderful: everything here, from the bone in the first line to the wind in the last, develops a full image of empty, and that tension is, I think, really fine.

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