Ekphrasis: Art & Poetry edited by Liz Blood
In Lauren Zunigaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s poem, inspired by visual artist JP Morrison Lans, tales of
IN THE END, WE ALWAYS GET THE HOUSE by Lauren Zuniga When we stumble in, drunk on our own curious blood.
female oppression-flouting and curiosity are part of time immemorial. Ekphrasis is a place for poets to express their imaginative understanding of a visual work of art.
Lauren Zuniga is a nationally touring poet and teaching artist whose work frequents places like Upworthy, MoveOn. org, and Everyday Feminism. Her second collection of poetry, The Smell of Good Mud (Write Bloody Press), was a finalist for the Oklahoma Book Award. She lives with her two kids and sweetheart in a house named Persimmon. www.laurenzuniga.com JP Morrison Lans creates her artwork and portraiture out of her home studio in Tulsa, OK. Her work primarily focuses on the beauty of the human form and the complexity of human experience. Recent works were added to the permanent collection of the Queensland Arts Council, Australia, where Lans was a resident for two years. She can be found at JPMorrison.net. n
When they drag us by our turnip heads to the witness stand. When they tell us not to eat the fruit. Tell us we are fruit. Tell us we will never be the right kind of fruit. Our juice stained hands, the castleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s only porch light. When they give us the keys but change the locks. Give us a garden of fresh blame to swallow. A dowry of broken ladders. Tell us to be grateful. When they think we have finally learned our lesson. We hike up our petticoats and charge the ocean. We stomp the salt. Wet our knees with redemption. Howl in the orchard until the moon cracks open. Nurse the sky with our want. Climb the curtain walls. Dangle from the tower like slick seeds from pulp. A thousand black birds carrying us like pies. When we throw our rinds to the storks. Wash our feet in the city fountain. When we are too sloppy to be saved. Too loud to be groomed. When we wear our names like daggers in the holster. The street carts still overflow with gourds. Babies still teethe on our wings. They still tell our story however they want to.
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