I am the woman you least supposed
to be conscious, drowning
like this in acres of blue tempered
by mint. A place where two
mirrors cannot find me. Waves
splinter, leave green shards
in the aqua eddy, where I hold
my breath through a time of gunwales
and sea captains, a time of spike
heels and silk dresses, a time of silver
combs. I wait, my back turned
to sea, my hair of albino eels
and ink stains, my blue-dusted thigh,
white-webbed skin. I drift
toward shore without maps
or geography, my body eroding
one vestige at a time. The sea snakes
own me now, their slither,
their coil and drift. My shadow
of unfettered moss floats me.
Hestia in the Unconscious,2010
oil and mixed media on paper, 24 x 26 in.,
COLLECTION DAN FROMHART
MARY KAY RUMMEL
There were too many spires—
bells numbering more than her feathers.
Warm-hearted sins wearing crimson dresses
in blazing gardens waved her in.
She shed radiance—the look of grace
the fold of white at her breast.
Standing there nude and alone as rain
as many sleepless eyes on her body
as once were feathers—she thought on his desire.
Like the bleating wave tracing the line of foam
she wanted to touch those fringes
of soul on his surface.
Everything moving up from trees
allowed direct speaking from the wound.
She heard a roar of wings, a deeper flesh—
running rain through acres of time and wheat
until she fell, her bee hive body
sheltering one holy thing
a red-tipped feather from her unfinished
Sophia and Eight Malic Forms, 2009
oil on canvas, 48 x 36 in., COLLECTION THE ARTIST
Nancy Scott Campbell
Elsa S. Frausto
Lois P. Jones
David Dodd Lee
Sharmagne Leland-St. John
Indiana Jane Linsteadt
Maria Elena B. Mahler
Mary Kay Rummel
Kath Abela Wilson