Rachel Dacus

Genesis. As often rued with offspring, the
design held surprises. You were born
disassembled, and we had to collage you as
a poet lays out poems on the floor to pick
them up in order. But where do all the
continents wait while deciding where to
drift? I would lie down on the parking lot
and let the storm trace my rain face, but it’s
been done. I just want to find out which
island I am. My agent says kill the
poems, leave the pros: these days readers only rap,
ad, or chat, are birthed mid-sentence.

In earliest encounters, First Peoples
were shocked that Europeans venerated dead
matter, had no tongues to taste earth rhythm
nor noses to scent wind breath. They
couldn’t voice eagles or pick out sweet eyes
in the bison herd. Two centuries later, we
pale humans eye the feathered offbeat but
now let them beatify. We taffy time with
voracious senses, assemble and dissemble,
collage our fractal personalities. Amino
acids on pilgrimage, we meet and touch,
impelled by a stream of ultraviolet rays that
lightnings new earth.

Rachel Dacus is the author of poetry books, Another Circle of Delight, Femme au chapeau and Earth Lessons, and interviews poets for Fringe and Umbrella magazines. Her work appears in the anthologies Ravishing DisUnities: Real Ghazals in English, Letters to the World: Poems from the Wom-Po LISTSERV, Beyond Forgetting: Poetry and Prose About Alzheimer’s Disease, and elsewhere. The daughter of a rocket scientist, her name is on a piece of floating space junk. Read more at and