2020 has been a year of upheaval and loss. I spent more of it sobbing in the fetal position than I’d care to admit. But that’s what makes bright spots like this shine even brighter. It is with deep humility and gratitude that I share this bit of light: my waffle poem found a (really) good home. Thanks to the folks at New Ohio Review for including “Currency of survival” in issue 28.
Thrilled to be reading with my dear friend Sunni Wilkinson in support of her fabulous new book. Come join us if you are so inclined.
Hey party peeps, I’ll be reading at the Water Witch this Monday night, followed by a riveting open mic.
Come join us for my two favorite things — poetry and wine — and bring your own poems to share.
March 11, 2019
7 p.m.
163 W. 900 South
Salt Lake City, Utah 84101
My mother was a fish. I worship moss
without words.
Your mother was a horse. You need to get
it done.
The bridge is out, the eye inquires. I don’t
advise it.
Will the horse and cart cross the river in
heavy rains?
When hoof meets scale, water froths like silver fish
in boiling
liquid and stallion grunts heavy against a
wild river,
growing wilder as it grows older. Stump collides
with flank.
What can breathe in water and what cannot.
What floats.
What sinks. What is lost in deeds and depth.
You lie
like a fish lies in silt natural as
a bed.
Published in Hubbub, Volume 33, 2019
Looking for wild horses in the west
desert, I found a spring instead.
Fresh water babble rising over menacing
desolation. The only sign of humans:
gnarled wire and the sagging fenceposts of an
abandoned pasture. Years ago,
my sisters and I saw a badger here.
Horned larks fuss as my dog lopes
through yellowed sage. Distant boom. Hunting season.
If my daughters answer at all, they say yes, no.
I told the man he had been careless with my heart.
He told me he thinks of me all the time.
It is not the same thing.
My thirst for solitude,
gorgeous despair and the vast emptiness
of blue, blue, blue, over browns.
Some small sound that I think
might be a hoof, the beginning of a herd —
a stone shifting under the roots of dried thistle.
Deep chill warmed by late October sun.
I eat hard-boiled eggs, salted and peppered,
wash them down with water.
I came here to see the musculature of untamed instinct:
a mare nuzzle a wobbly foal
a stallion herd the slowest straggler
a band of dun and bay, black and white.
I wanted, perhaps, the clamor of family.
Or some echo of it.
Natural order demonstrated
in feral whinnies. An understanding
that survival depended on staying together.
Instead, this strange trickle in the arid
landscape, the stubborn greening of watercress
amidst rusted pipes and bullet casings.
Published in Hubbub, Volume 33, 2019
Feeling very fortunate to be included in this issue of Kettle Blue Review. Check it out if you are so inclined.
15 Bytes was kind enough to record the READ LOCAL reading with myself and Utah’s poet laureate Paisley Rekdal. This is what they had to say:
“Interesting things happen when you bring two writers together, which is why every quarter Artists of Utah, in conjunction with Salt Lake City Arts Council, brings two Utah writers together for a reading and discussion. On Thursday, January 25, READ LOCAL featured poets Natalie Taylor and Paisley Rekdal. Taylor won first place in the 2016 Utah Original Writing competition for Poetry and Rekdal, Utah’s Poet Laureate, was the winner of the 2017 15 Bytes Book Award for Poetry. The writers share an interest in mythology, especially the story of the Minotaur, and form — both read from ekphrastic works. Take a listen to their wonderful readings and the discussion that follows.”
READ LOCAL is presented in conjunction with Salt Lake City Arts Council and support from Utah Humanities.
You’ll find the podcast feed at: http://feeds.feedburner.com/ArtistsOfUtahs15Bytes
