Meg Tuite. She's a spitfire, that one. Since before she was even printed in The Radvocate, she's been an entushiastic patricipant of our cause, even flying out from New Mexico to be in our second reading show in 2014. In addition to being an infectious personality, she has a whole bevy of accomplishments to speak of. She is the author of two short story collections, Bound By Blue (2013) from Sententia Books and Domestic Apparition (2011) from San Francisco Bay Press. She also has three chapbooks, the latest titled, Her Skin is a Costume (2013) from Red Bird Chapbooks. She won the Twin Antlers Collaborative Poetry award from Artistically Declined Press for her poetry collection, Bare Bulbs Swinging (2014) written with Heather Fowler and Michelle Reale. She teaches at the Santa Fe Community College and edits for the Santa Fe Literary Review and Connotation Press, in addition to writing a column at JMWW. She lives in Santa Fe with her husband and menagerie of pets. You can find her bloggings at http://megtuite.com.
Here now are her poems featured in The Radvocate #13. This will conclude our 'Look back' series as we build up for the release of Issue #14, coming Summer 2016.
the beating light of an undefined hour
She felt enchanted, life was an uncomplicated auction,
until a visitor saw all her luck stampeding out the door.
The rusted horseshoes she’d found in the backyard
were hung upside down. She began to slouch again,
worried she was impossible to climb. Calendars
impregnated her with white blank dates heavy
with expectation, strained by frantic engagements
she made up and penciled in. Weight of things not done
blew the gust of her into an artifact, deep cleavage
rooted her eyebrows in chronic disappointment
as her hands grew older ghosts who opened and closed
the past like Venetian blinds.
I am walking beside me
A day appears to happen cause weather is reported
and some man finds a conscience while a grocery list
blinks on the counter in capital letters no cheese no
bread sit on shelves wondering what kind of cough
magnifies the need for another afternoon on the couch
when things have generated movement though not from
inside through the lick of evening a father is absent as a
match cannot find its candle and a cemetery caws the
sound of wind chimes while the warm sound of a mother
reading stories recognizes its own past.
Known Snares of Mesmeric Currents
Skies are roiling pink and I’m starving rooms with
the absence of you and where is nowhere that used
to hollow out the eruptive hours of indecisive head
lights gouging track marks of someone else’s existence
on sullen windows painted shut and migraines dulled
by bathroom mirrors still curled around the breath of
powdered speech where laced up urgency is as close as
a woman’s lipstick fat as the shaded tip of some storm
winded clothes battling the strain of dust devils driven
by the soporific fossil of unrecorded gray wishes dazed
in placid rivers crying for some kid to sweep under
waves and grasp some shiny history while inside white
spiral tiles are counted sitting on a toilet dismissed and
prophetic memories passed over waiting to be ripped
from a waiter’s pad squeezed between two frightful
human tragedies of starched silence uncovered and
strewn from wreckage of need.