Contact Dance in the Mission District by Dawn Banghart
“Contact Dance in the Mission District” by Dawn Banghart She is there, sitting on the dance studio lower bleachers untying tennis shoe laces socks off, toes touching the rough paint chipped floor spandex tights snug at the knees, hugging her thick thighs a loose silk shirt swirls as she walks across the floor past us the small pod of early arrivals. She opens the windows and breeze rolls across her hand. We...
Practice by Alison Hicks
“Practice” by Alison Hicks The small precision: word matched to moment, finger placed squarely on the string, the pitch containing not only itself, but itself halved, and that halved, and again. Ratios that move the small bones of the ear translate resonance to the brain. Lives of sloppy shifts, wrong notes, mistakes in tonality. Late at night in the living room, try to make up for this. In your notebook, on...
Color Coded by Lauren Camp
“Color Coded” by Lauren Camp Since no one ever wanted to paint me, I took a brush elsewhere in the city— behind the white fence, into night. To my husband I said Find me there with the collapsible blue. What? he asked. Do I have to trail you through Dame’s rocket and upended furniture? I readied the skin and fat of my small piece of purpose, so tired of tallying a landscape to see it slung on screws for a...
Pentimento by Catherine Moore
“Pentimento” by Catherine Moore She painted over his works because she felt he had spent too much time in his blue period. The disemboweled female forms were barely swathed in bolts of lapis atop ecru. Draped over in wide eyes afraid—primitive empties, effigies of sad spoils. The figures needed their horror broken....
Droom by Margaret Chula
“Droom” by Margaret Chula M.C. Escher wood engraving, 1935 The bishop reclines on tassled cushions hands crossed at his waist in sweet repose. A praying mantis straddles his chest. Legs, knobbled like rosary beads, knead the red fabric of his robes. Thorax and forelegs cast a shadow over the bishop’s trusting heart. In the great beyond, arches of the coliseum hold up the night sky. Venus and Jupiter shine out...
Does the sea remember everything? I wonder.
Does she absorb everything? Does she keep it safe?
Virginia Woolf
. . .
The Q: Can you fathom the spectacle that would be created if we moved together, arms outstretched, close enough to touch?
The Q: What echoes through you that longs to take form—a poem, an image, a mark, a whisper of becoming?
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fathoms Feb 28, 2026 -
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