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Marlene Maxwell
My back cover starts with the last paragraph from my short story “Indian Lake”. It is hard to write "about" my poems and stories. It is hard to write "about" myself. It is not false vanity but a di...mehr sehenMy back cover starts with the last paragraph from my short story “Indian Lake”. It is hard to write "about" my poems and stories. It is hard to write "about" myself. It is not false vanity but a discomfort lying somewhere between my inner voice and idiosyncrasy (sounds better than oddity or peculiarity). I can tell you that Nana's camp on Indian Lake was very near Lubec, Maine, where I was born. Lubec was once a thriving sardine town on the most northeast coast. It's where the sun rises first and morning memories are vivid, rain or shine. In those days breathing was simply triggered by my lungs need for oxygen. Through my life the drive to come up for air has been more complex like the exchange of carbon. Still, a view of a lake beyond or in a picture window brings goose flesh sticking like a warm wind.
I twirled, fell down, and climbed up
on a grey-green couch to bow for the
colors of the morning.
Ripples of diamonds danced for me.
Nana danced because I had red hair.weniger sehen