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E. Darcy Trie

Born in Taipei, Taiwan, E. Darcy Trie matriculated in Little Rock, Arkansas at the age of two. She graduated from the University of Arkansas at Fayetteville with a degree in Psychology along with Minors in Drama and Asian Studies. Sensing that achieving her Masters would drive her to drink, she wisely opted to tour Asia in her early twenties (thanks to a grant provided by Bank Of Daddy), and in the year 2000, found herself in the heart of Beijing, China where she began writing due to the voices in her head that refused to shut up. She is a published poet, a writer of mystery and romance novels, and is fluent in English, Mandarin Chinese, some French, and once took a Zero Hour in Greek in high school. She despises mornings, coconuts, and lighters that won't work even though it's SO obvious that there's still tons of fluid inside them. And please don't get her started on wire bras ... it won't be pretty. If you wish to contact her with comments about her poetry or have love advice, stock tips, book deals or just want to wire her millions, she can be reached at shellas32@gmail.com. 



Crisp

within your breath
rises a conch moon
crisp as ginger
and a moment
when god rustled
in your sigh

i am reduced to a child
finding rubies on your chest
hum through hips
the skip of spine
skim
the tall grasses of your thighs

the magnet of your mouth
foams these dark parts
it sticks and slicks
until i am ruined by
the red

it is then
i will sing my blue
into the night of your throat



Touch

august is churning butterflies and butter and wipes a hand on a night apron

she decrees:
you are going to fall in love
tonight
&
it will be like death
sudden and irreversible

but he is murky
as fruit punch and tobacco
and in between the fingers
he will give me vex and sob-apples
his eyes hold paintings of grieving women below a mouth loitering on a south-bound train

and though stonehenge and hyacinths
puncture his breath

i no longer believe in such homemade kites

yet

last night
i found the secret pocket of his neck
the mute fragrant way
our shapes collide
the bloodless goodbye
to disquiet's youth

i suppose
grandmother august
if i can still understand a blue wind
and plant red mint on the hill of his chin then yes tonight his touch will be the language of every god imaginable



Pink Chalk

jelly shoes and ice cream trucks
the house
a hulking father holding a wet jacket
you could not bear to put back on

i carried little things in my pocket
here: a half page of funny comics
here: grape gum in a fresh wrapper
and here: a pink piece of chalk
where the sidewalk escaped from the driveway i'd draw you with sharp chin and a bowl head laughing laughing until he hollered

dinner

and yet
the fields behind the cul de sac quickened against the breast of march even as he chased away clouds and new curtains and left marks not made of mascara we found time to share 50 cent twinkies with stray dogs living under the abandoned mattresses festering with bluebonnets bickering over friendship bracelets and daisy chains oh how the sun made our skin glow

and you know
i can't explain
why you wouldn't believe that knives and electricity don't mix and here you found another man holding blankets and babies heavy as ripe pears taking down a power grid

so another equinox approaches
and here insincere clouds form over a muttering river and holler up chimneys in a house empty of fathers and dinners

i notice i age more in spring

there is a permanent hole
in the vision of my left eye
it is diamond-shaped at the bottom
round at the top and smiles
like the last time i saw you
and i close it
over and over again
so it won't go away



Of Death and Honey

mother
i thought your death
easy
your voice rising
like unmolested bamboo
18 centimeters a day
towards a friday god
eager to pluck you
for his september buffet

and though you protested
through the log of lungs
the brick of ribs
that the wooden tips of your fingers
would not burn
within an autumn night
you were so gentle
in your surrender
that your cries
would not disturb
a sleeping buddha

and here
i tremble
that i will lack your grace
my last hour
gritted and gnarled
robed in rage and stinking
of sour lament
yet again
unworthy of being called
your daughter

o guanyin pusa:

embrace me
with your thousand arms
and pour your porcelain mercy
over me

may my end be of
her same lattice of pearls
white callouses of courage
rattling within the heart of a lotus
the saga of my final sigh rising
past the calm incense of our tongue
the cool smoke of teeth
until it is sweeter
than the echo of honey
on the breath of
a hummingbird

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