Emily Anderson

                                                                                                Bobbin lace

takes its name not
from the sea

                        where it seems

but from the small bones used like fingers
in prayers to keep holes,
its other name:  be




still she knits
the sea bends

her back like the
the wind doubling
a flame this
way’s history & her hair’s

an aqueous wool
whole like land

where there’s water
her back aches

her fingers
stare into the dark
a large machine 

our throats stay warm





my stays are laced so tight w/
not being sure who to kill





sound un

or leap

in error:

hei sucka





‘s a dang song
Rachel, ikke
drikke, ikke
sky.  Ikke
wet, ikke
fast ikke
du, ah
so lone





                                                so hold me fast







your lacefrock
so, uh, waist-deep
and weep-vast the
better to guess you
with.  Try to
get out.  But no.

Asleepghosts opening
all my faucets:  I’m
late, I tell you, with
no time to keep running
back to what’s white
and always going on

and this damn back
of mine’s like a blind





First, there is no
home.  We who laughed
on what
while it snowed
the long table


we drew over it what was beautiful.

Who knows what yesterday
you ate.

How I slept once, and
you came over and the sun
was already

hot, I was naked
the sheets
crisped around my waist
I slept like Jesus and you laughed

me awake with your brass hair.





I know why she went in the trunk: to hear the
lid.  Some where in time they’re trying to pry
my fingers, but they won’t budge. 





Alone I make my letters how I lake.  Haply note bay as land.  Eye latch, seaguile, ill white wools.  Fill want, waist-lack, weep-vast: your fern bed’s so ache-green to crawl-among: so creeps my, the witless want-stroke so all desiring. The wastelack for how wanting my english.  Drum lack my hold storm, dang song a looked flood of fearlock, my should half, shod hope

I want some seal legs.





tie a string to remember





yes,  dear

where there’s so much water





even a cat could fall between


the lines are so delicate





green oarglass
white notepier my
foam-broad desiring
wail-lack my
droplake my
english what
wanting.  Drums
slake my
heldsong my

I want to steal some legs.




where & when
our eyes meet & part





COLD WATER: [to my bones]: Chomp! Chomp!






my marrow
scrolls across the
seatop like it’s  a
birthday cake,
like it’s been





hold where the boatstop
where they tip
the green from ferns
those water vessels
their shapes spill
my moving








This poem was made possible by my student's plagiarized paper [here], my trip to Tromsø, Norway, Sigrid Undset's Kristin Lavransdatter trilogy, Giants in the Earth by Ole Rolvaag and a 20 hour train ride through 24 hours of daylight.