About this poet

Monica Ferrell is the author of the poetry collection, Beasts for the Chase (Sarabande Books, 2008), which won the Kathryn A. Morton Prize in poetry.

Rime Riche

Monica Ferrell
You need me like ice needs the mountain 
On which it breeds. Like print needs the page.
You move in me like the tongue in a mouth,
Like wind in the leaves of summer trees,
Gust-fists, hollow except for movement and desire
Which is movement. You taste me the way the claws
Of a pigeon taste that window-ledge on which it sits,
The way water tastes rust in the pipes it shuttles through
Beneath a city, unfolding and luminous with industry. 
Before you were born, the table of elements 
Was lacking, and I as a noble gas floated 
Free of attachment. Before you were born, 
The sun and the moon were paper-thin plates 
Some machinist at his desk merely clicked into place.

Copyright © 2010 by Monica Ferrell. Used with permission of the author.

Copyright © 2010 by Monica Ferrell. Used with permission of the author.

Monica Ferrell

Monica Ferrell is the author of the poetry collection, Beasts for the Chase (Sarabande Books, 2008), which won the Kathryn A. Morton Prize in poetry.

by this poet

poem

There is nothing beautiful here
However I may want it. I can’t
Spin a crystal palace of this thin air,
Weave a darkness plush as molefur with my tongue
However I want. Yet I am not alone
In these alleys of vowels, which comfort me
As the single living nun of a convent
Is comforted

poem
Man shaped out of mud
And made to speak and love—
Let's stick in him a little whisperer,

A bucket with two holes.
Let's give him the Great Deceiver,
A blood-stone.

A church with a vaulted ceiling
Where the White and Blue Niles meet.
A dog who cries after dark.

Everyone has a heart,
Even the people who don't.