Cynthia Cruz
Fragment
In the film, Maria Schneider’s
character follows Jack Nicholson’s
death into the desert. In the middle
of the film, he changes, becomes
someone else. I don’t who
I am. Sabine tells me
I do, and that I confuse myself
so I can tell myself that I don’t.
And whether it’s something
worth pursuing or should I
just turn back. In the red car, as they drive
into the desert, she looks
back at the expanse, the beginning
of the end. Yesterday
when I saw Sabine, she said
you are empty, a vessel.
I have begun taking photographs
in an attempt to document
my every moment,
preparing. The moment
of total exhaustion
is the moment
when it all begins.
Fragment
Now the body has begun
its slow breaking down.
And still, I don't see myself.
Not like the others: beautiful
Tommy, in his pale pink satin bomber,
his nomadic tales of illness and travel.
Sabine is trying to help me.
But, I’m tired.
This morning is a dream
I cannot wake from.
And the body is exposed,
glittering in its invisible terrors.
When I was little I sat for hours
on the dirt earth, among the animals.
Before the house, lost inside.
I had no body, then. Or,
when I shut my eyes.
But everything is changed.
I am more beautiful, sometimes,
traveling, but also nearer, more animal.
Cynthia Cruz is the author of four collections of poems: Ruin, The Glimmering Room, Wunderkammer, and How the End Begins. She is also an art writer and essayist. A collection of essays on silence and language is forthcoming. She is currently a doctoral student in German Language and Literature. Cruz teaches at Sarah Lawrence College. Visit her website here: http://cynthiacruzblog.blogspot.com/
Return to January 2017 Edition
In the film, Maria Schneider’s
character follows Jack Nicholson’s
death into the desert. In the middle
of the film, he changes, becomes
someone else. I don’t who
I am. Sabine tells me
I do, and that I confuse myself
so I can tell myself that I don’t.
And whether it’s something
worth pursuing or should I
just turn back. In the red car, as they drive
into the desert, she looks
back at the expanse, the beginning
of the end. Yesterday
when I saw Sabine, she said
you are empty, a vessel.
I have begun taking photographs
in an attempt to document
my every moment,
preparing. The moment
of total exhaustion
is the moment
when it all begins.
Fragment
Now the body has begun
its slow breaking down.
And still, I don't see myself.
Not like the others: beautiful
Tommy, in his pale pink satin bomber,
his nomadic tales of illness and travel.
Sabine is trying to help me.
But, I’m tired.
This morning is a dream
I cannot wake from.
And the body is exposed,
glittering in its invisible terrors.
When I was little I sat for hours
on the dirt earth, among the animals.
Before the house, lost inside.
I had no body, then. Or,
when I shut my eyes.
But everything is changed.
I am more beautiful, sometimes,
traveling, but also nearer, more animal.
Cynthia Cruz is the author of four collections of poems: Ruin, The Glimmering Room, Wunderkammer, and How the End Begins. She is also an art writer and essayist. A collection of essays on silence and language is forthcoming. She is currently a doctoral student in German Language and Literature. Cruz teaches at Sarah Lawrence College. Visit her website here: http://cynthiacruzblog.blogspot.com/
Return to January 2017 Edition