from Correspondence
TATTER BALLAD
TAM LIN B
your tongue
. . . . . .
double rose,
rose but only
kill
10/18
and then of course the fact of death
rears its scary finger
in the workplace
at the end
of the email, before the rose and after
she writes I
appreciate
your help with this. My failing has been hastening
and it may be as soon as April
and I (which is she)
would not wish to leave
the photographs and chapters
in David’s hands—he would not understand
Please forgive me
for being so frank. first of all
she writes just a personal
FYI: there was a stroke three weeks ago
and I am having trouble
filling out your forms and responding
to all your questioners. I have no idea
what you want me to do
with those two empty
Excel files. There are no permissions
or captions needed.
Those are not good photographs. ☐
1/12
in reply he writes I
have told Maria repeatedly
that, while we are working
together, we are “the author”
and ought agree
before presenting a unified front
to the Press’s representatives, i.e.
Yes, it is her life,
but it is our book! This is not the place
for her full
autobiography, memoir,
or CV.
even though this cutting was painful,
I did it and suggest the Sacred Paw
writings be deleted from the Bibliography… Plainly,
it is not
the Press’s responsibility
to make up for her lack
of publishing and publicizing
and do what
she should’ve done years ago
and it’s a fact that our contract
is for a book about blues
fieldwork and research
and she is using this subterfuge
to insert her personal
stories far off the mark
of what the book we signed off on
was meant to be about. I shall leave it
up to you to be the arbiter
regarding these deletions
and regret that we have had to put you in this difficult position.
THE TWA SISTERS
father
dragged
And stripped her
father
made a harp o her
12/26
she writes in the absence
of consensus, what is in fact
the best future
for the book. That reminds me
an old friend died just hours ago
after at least a week
of terrible suffering in a cold
ICU and I refuse
to spend these last couple months of my life
“arguing” with you (who
is he, not we) to present
a “unified front” to these people who will be
publishing our notes. We both know
there are points our opinions will never
correspond on. It’s been that way
since way back then, back when we were in
the field. Not all our readers
spent time in poor Black homes
in the 60s. The descriptions
have pointers so people
look deeper. Almost everyone
just looks
at the person holding the instrument.
Even you.
You could have taken two steps back
and gotten Jack
Owen’s extremely intriguing boots
and work clothing in your photo
but you were totally focused
on the man and his guitar. ☐
DIVES AND LAZARUS
Bestow upon the poor
hunger
art
lies
hunger
art
lies
10/25
My job as the assistant is
to write I want to ensure you
the Press’s director has forewarned
the designer to retain
your photos such that they remain
high-quality documents and will not
become mere accoutrement to the body
of the text. Thank you for your message
and David writes in privacy She’s simply unwilling
to take my advice
based on a lifetime of writing and publishing.
All I can say is good
luck working with her.
For you (who’s I) seem very
diplomatic, and I think it very well
may all work out in the end.
Well, good luck with this.
You may need it! and she writes
We lived in Spanish Harlem.
Back then, 110 was cobbled
with a fountain at the end.
The mounted police and the men
with bitstrung horses would water
their animals there. There was the rag
and bone man and the produce
man hawking and wagons full
of coal to be shoveled I don’t know
where and when you are inside
those interior brick buildings
you can’t hear the city. It’s like living
in the grand
canyon as the sun comes up
over the rim. I was appalled to see all
the stoops were gone. You walk and you walk and you walk
and though I miss it I could not live it, as I am. ☐
1/14
I thought I sent you this New Biography, but here
it is again. I suspect it will end up being
whatever David wants. A fall
on the ice; David writes
this book has gone beyond
its original purpose, evidently in an effort
for Maria to have “equal time”
I’ll write no more. She writes We (she and Rick)
would’ve been without a phone
except for us old-fashioned folk
who have old-fashioned phones
When the snowstorm caused my neighbor’s tree
to fall on me
I plugged it in
but the tree is just
menacing and undestructive
yet. his intention is to diminish
my presence in the book—yesterday, another stroke
long beyond that moment
she photographed David
writing in the foreground, behind him
an exceptionally beautiful example of wall decor
Note women’s
purses in the leftmost corner. Aside, she writes
[I used David
only to have a reason
to photograph the wall.] I wish that people
would look into the photos
rather than at them. Tobaccos I have Grown
and Loved. A Simpler’s Garland: the Gentle
Art of Poulticing, forthcoming from Sacred Paw,
I won’t finish them in time. Please leave out the titles. ☐
4/17
She writes me Even
worse than losing the music
in my hands has been the loss
of my voice. I want to write to Maria Seems
for so long you’ve gone unheard the gods
knocking under the surface
of objects, bodies, on the topic
of delusion - joy
[Quoted text hidden]
Tradition needs time to wear a song
down to its essence. This assistant listens
to her typing Seems to me
a literary hand
played a role in these songs’ devising. Very precise.
Very accurate. Sorry… I apologize
for that ‘David’ stuff
I accidentally slipped in
to our private correspondence. bits
of lyrics—a series
of verses, loosely arranged
around an emotional core. Soon our community
will be nothing but tourist shops—death by
online commerce. ☐
THE CARNAL AND THE CRANE
argument
Carnal
Was the mother of
the Ghost
1/26
later she writes me I
am confident this letter
will go through deliciously
I write her
contradictory logic and she responds who knows
with the coming and going of texts
where that scrap originated. so strangely
attractive to me (and she) to share
my emotional landscape—sprawling tree
of unpleasantness that is the indo-
european worldview. It was hard
to think and speak
because I could feel
things were not right to reckon
I type with death By the way
I loved your writing
about the proposal songs. There is still
a lot she writes I
(echoing myself)
would like to respond to in your letters. but I can’t touch those waters
∩
Jackson Watson is a writer and translator from Georgia. They live in Providence now, where they work as a wildlife rehabilitator and serve as a poetry reader for Nat. Brut Magazine and Tyger Quarterly. Their work is published or forthcoming in mercury firs, Fence, Poem-a-Day, and elsewhere. @iamthedogiam