Susan McMaster

Water Paper Stone
(a word-litho birthday card for Penn Kemp)


Could I lean into, press my hands onto this stone
with such energy of friendship that all bumps and runnels flatten,
could I roll it so hard that colour transfers
direct from my hands
to yours
the paper
between us carrying
a re-prise of the richest hues of our hollers while yet
marking each edge sharp
sharp
press here
and here
on op
this double-lobed o
loop, this o-
penned
to
nal,
could I swoop greased whorls, raze acid, cut space,
wash water, stream, flush this bland polished flat with all the soaring years hanging transparent on layers of a-lines,
Ah, lady, here's a birthday card cut to absorptions beyond first seeing, a hand-on-hand print, digging through stone to shape water mould paper –
mark our re/verse in/verse ob/verse re/fold of the loop- a-laughing word.

(unpublished, (c) Susan McMaster, Ottawa, 2004)


Lately, she remembers (March)

Her palms are hungry.
Oh, other parts too,
but in the night, now he’s gone,
and even the cat finds
elsewhere to sleep,
it is her palms that ache
for the feel of his shoulder,
right there, in the centre
of her hand, where the bones
come together, where the flesh
sparks at a touch.

The heart, she calls it
to herself, much more real
than the erratic muscle
that lodges over her stomach,
stutters when she climbs
the stairs too fast,
burns and knocks,
a complaining roomer
always ready to whine.

In the rain-pattered night
she rubs palms against the sheet –
his hip – his shoulder –
how they fit as she rolls
onto her side, as she smooths
her hand down a muscled arm,
slips it over his chest,
circles, presses
till the nipple hardens,
tucks knees against thighs,
soft fur rubbing
as she strokes further down,
strokes the curl of hair
under the slow ribs,
down the feathered belly,
cups a soft rise.

In the flat, empty bed,
to the beat of rain,
she covers her mouth,
brings a tongue into that crease.

Cups her heart.
Licks it dry.

from Until the Light Bends (Black Moss, 2004), (c) Susan McMaster