Almond milk in his hands,

goat shadow under olive tree,

dune blown sideways

toward divided sea.  Eyes

that very shape. Kohl,

fire, husk.  Robes white

as cassava meat.  Skin

black as vulture wing.

The desert cannot find us.

Outside hears only

wet animal cries.  Golden

chain sewn through:

our honeyed, vinegar lies.



Other poems from All Hands Lost:


Haibun Today:  "Notes, Kyoto"

With her gift for indelible images and lyric precision, Laura Juliet Wood's poems cross continents to bring us funerary wreaths, a cymbal clash of wings, and Jesus and Guadalupe bright as comic book pages. Vivid and brimming with spiritual intelligence, Wood's language distills the beauty of the every day and the extraordinary, the loss and the consolation, the curse and the blessing.

            --Traci Brimhall, author of Our Lady of the Ruins

Laura Juliet Wood's keen intelligence inside these poems reveals luminous, alert landscapes and heartscapes in crafted language that tantalizes, pierces.  All Hands Lost is a vivid record; details meticulously slice through into ardent shimmer, poem after poem. These poems ache with a restless, brilliant looking:  they resound with deep music and a scholar's passion for the global traditions of her craft…a powerful new voice has come into the fold, sharing, as she says, "the glistening bones of my history.”

            --Judyth Hill, author of Black Hollyhock, First Light

Here is a poet who doesn't shrink from the big subjects.  The poems are packed with stunning images: two yellow butterflies with their "cymbal clash of wings" in a summer garden. The poems are sensual Zen dreams, mysterious, odd, and ultimately fearless. Laura Juliet Wood is on her way.
             --Mary Ann McFadden, author of Eye of the Blackbird