Black Star, Chapter 1
She covered her dresses with pockets,
she filled her pockets with stones;
She'd pause at the edge of the midnight streetlight
and peer into the dark, alone.
And reaching into her pocket,
she'd draw forth a handful of weight
And fling it into the blackness,
listening for the sounds it made.
Sometimes it glanced off a trash can lid,
making noises like you might expect
But mostly she stood,
and waited for it to connect.
I wonder if Kate Horowitz knows how brilliant these words are. Just like with my paintings, people make connections in different ways.
I connect to the image this poem creates because I cover my dresses with pockets, and I fill those pockets with stones.
Some of those stones are precious and beautiful, some meaningful. Those stones keep me grounded.
Then some heavy stones are there for no reason at all, just weight that has become so familiar that I don't see it anymore. But I feel it and I carry it. Wanting so badly to let some of the heaviness, I hold one of those stones in my hand and examine it, turning it in the light.
I used to think others could help me carry my stones, but they are mine. I carry them or I let them go.