Edythe has always struggled with the concept of home, isolation, and one’s place in an ever-changing society. She is drawn to the art of storytelling in the realms of cinema, literature, music, and dance. Her formative years were spent in Minneapolis and Los Angeles, respectively, where she has used the catharsis of these mediums as a map; navigating through her own transgressions. She is a writer, filmmaker, and artist by necessity. A woman on the brink of empowerment by choice. She currently resides in Rochester, NY, where she’s attempting to rediscover the magic and dreams that were previously dismissed as childhood folly.
“The Woman Who Wasn’t There”
You woke up early from your nap, all of three feet tall
And pulled away the fitted sheet from the corner
Of her mattress (where you are supposed to be asleep).
To behold the winding seams of it, which seem to be
Endless and in some royal design. And since
You see her as a Queen, it is quite fitting...
This, pulling away of the fitted sheet
And exposing of these seams. The Virginia
Sun has risen, penetrating her window
And it appears to fall and rise—
(it is disturbed by the passing of a cloud)
And finally sets on a place in the design of
Purple stitching, where these seams,
Like the button of a worn, favorite garment,
Have come a little loose.
You stick your finger through the interruption
Of these seams, which appear infinite. You are
Aroused by violating it. You pull the thread, plucking,
As on an inherited guitar, ever holding your
Breath to hear its foreign yelps clearly. In a
Frenzy you bow your head to the seam, with blind haste.
Baring your small pearly fangs, dazzling with drool—
You destroy its endlessness and gaze at the damage
With a newfound perversion in your heart.
In one quick, graceful movement, you pull
Up towards the sun and away from your
Small body in order to begin ripping the seam
From the mattress, but only in minimal
Fragments. At each nap you unfold the fitted sheet
And struggle to keep your eyes open until
Hers close so that you can tear a little
More. And when she wakes, she mindlessly
Spreads you out on top of all this ruin
And changes your soiled diaper.
You move your small arms on the exposed
Corner of the mattress as if making a
Snow-angel, but she does not look at your arms.
She takes care to keep her eyes fixed on your navel,
Not even at the task of cleaning down below
(which, like hers once was, is without hair).
Then she did not notice all your efforts; So
Every mid-afternoon you unravel some more
And you think, This time. You look at the shadows
Made by southern clouds, juxtaposed with
Furious rays, and wait for the grey moments to come
During the sun’s disappearing act to get to work
Once more. Maybe this time she’ll notice that I
Destroyed her royal patterns, you think. Then
Comes the “rip-snap-pluck” followed by her
Awakening, the swoops of your arms, and memories of
Snow that hardly ever fell, and are refreshing under
This taxing, and inevitably bright illumination.
Perhaps today she will follow the movements of my
Arms and behold what is below my navel. And as her
Offspring, in this inconstant light, you wish to say:
I spread my limbs, dear Queen. I did so yesterday
Which to you, was only a second ago. I’ll do so tomorrow,
And forever. My marrow and flesh are the product of
Your undoing. Your unasked-for empire. Regard them
Soon. Refusal to do so will not leave them small or
Frail, like the switches you yank from that tree in our
Yard to reprimand me for merely existing. For
Every spring, outside this window, on our
Rented lawn, our weeds will find the
Time to grow, even when our grass
Cannot—under this spiteful sun. And
Supposing we catch a break from its glare
And the clouds grant us rain instead of shadow,
You will still say to me, half-asleep, that the droplets are
God’s tears. Haven’t you learned, in a life as damned as
Yours, that they are simply ours, reincarnated.
“This Room”
My darling’s laugh slipped from her
Glossed lips and I entrapped it in a jar.
Now stifled, it rests above the fireplace
Amongst trophies. This room is
Vacant, except for me and my hands
And we make shadow puppets on the
Buckling ceiling. How long have we
Been here, in the shadow world? What
Corners has time gone to sleep? I cannot
Tell; we are so easily distracted. But in the
Shroud I strained for years to hear it….
Something like pretty feet in heeled shoes.
The sound of something being crunched
Without mercy underneath. So familiar.
Listen closely….
Can you hear the laughter?