| Public Radio, 12:37 a.m on a Saturday. By Amber Norwood "And here's a little Nietzsche for all you lonely surfers out there. . . " From this rock outcropping due south to the sound, the crests glow bright teal, the oxygenated gasp of things you can't see glowing in the black, commits to the inhale, exhale brought about by the moon, which is also not alive. But what you see moves, propelled by magnets that draw you to the breaking place where sand crabs tunnel beneath chaotic grunion-shine, slick, copulating before God (dead) and everybody, to bear suffocation. What you see, north, is where the body of sand curves pale and girlish; to the white noise she seems to respire. She sees you, the cave, purple lupine, as you see this old familiar as something new because you move your own body from your own line of sight, re-vision, knowing now, in its stoic endlessness curving toward the horizon – "if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you." It is terrible. And new. Consuming. And to remove yourself from the darkness, paddle deep within it. |
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Amber Norwood recently received her M.A. in Poetry from Cal State Northridge and now teaches writing at a few colleges in and around Los Angeles, where she lives with her husband and cat. When she is not teaching writing, or commuting between colleges, she is making music and writing poems. Her work has previously appeared in The Northridge Review, Luhith, and The Bandersnatch. |