In this episode, Connor and Jack dive into the beautiful and challenging poem "Snake White, Owl White" by Tacey Atsitty. They discuss finding poem's powerful sound and rhythm, its complex and contradictory expression of self, and finding other anchors as readers in the absence of clear narrative.
Snake White, Owl White
By: Tacey M. Atsitty
When I say that my cheek fell,
I mean the bone, the gliding
pell sunken. I mean how it hides
in rain, in a sky-lit cell, swelling.
This is me fallen together,
separated from her, that mistelling
of Female Warrior Who Split
in Two, who pulled from her gut-well
a lumpy snake, pale with a scaling tongue;
word-slit. I’ve heaved her pang, her yell
at the snap of his tail. They drop
like words at the end, a quell
to the flood-line of an uvula,
a face, a cheek pouch—high like shell
veins. Birds swim silver
in the sky. An owl drops to dwell
with me. Gapes. It’s death.
I step back. I can’t tell
how he rises and dives at me, then turns
flight just before my head. When I tell you
this is where bone rises to white,
I mean tomorrow, a minute later, dive well.
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