Sunday Poetry: Kristian Macaron

OK, so Kristian is a Facebook friend. We did meet somewhere, but my memory fails me. She is published by Swimming with Elephants, and her wandering poems are epic cataclysms of molten explosions, star twists and extravaganzas. She’s quite persistent on the topic that minimizes our personal angst into mere specks, blips on the eyeballs of galaxies. Wanderer I’ve been trying to figure out the way the world was built. The way tectonics equal breath— In that same way moments of nebulae and volcanoes pass among us into some elemental ocean— as even as moments of picking up starfish in the surf, as sifting through stones in mountains. Pangea, Rodinia, Laurasia, Atlantis are names of infinite movement and once they’ve released their seismic shudders the plates mantle-warm breathe Jade—tectonic scarring—silty snake green and ocean veined. Once a stranger told me that the Grand Canyon grows one centimeter each year—or crumbles— and that part of Guatemala is in California, and he’s probably wrong, but “I know the world is moving,” he says and tells me the snowy plateau of the Rockies is part of the Pacific subterranean which forced herself up through the crust to become a continental core. I’ve […]

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