“of being” by Mary Silwance
I love the way she kettles overhead
scenting and seeing what is there
but keens and dives only for what is hers—
She will not rise glorious
like a phoenix
with mythic feathers
to preen.
No.
She will thrust instead into death.
Feast on disease.
Savor clots of rot.
Slurp decay.
Make
communion
from wreckage.
For this is what a wake is:
meticulous release from
malady
injury
frailty
the absolute gravity of time.
Lover of bone
She strips
sinew, muscle, fat, flesh
to reveal
the sturdy light vessel
of being
as sacrament.
She then glides on thermals
wings spread
rising
rising
rising
head thrown back, eyelids closed
caressed by the nearing sun.
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Mary Silwance’ Artist Statement: I rely on story to build bridges both within and without. Story helped me navigate culture as an immigrant child, navigate family, navigate myself. Story pairs journalistic precision with imagination to create a lexicon of how life feels. Specifically, how does life feel in the body, individual as well as collective body? Thus I find myself at the confluence of individual as well as collective story, trauma and aspiration. What stories converge here? What stories do we need to remember and reimagine about ourselves, Earth and each other to heal divisions, build bridges and co-create community?
