When the moon ate the dark,
I went hungry. Hungry –
not for stars as dry old rice
on a pan, on a counter, in a bowl,
but for a blackstrap night –
thick, sweet and bitter run
on my tongue – on a pancake plain,
forked through and wedged out
In sections, forty odd
and herded for harvest.
All art is a conjuring – a twisting of metals, mist and things uncertain. From the seen and tasted comes a thought run down through nerve and blood to the hands. And what is displayed, dispersed, perhaps as inconsequential as a single fallen leaf, a split cicada husk or a thin layer of sloughed off skin on a tabletop may land upon an eye and find communion. Through my many and somewhat failed striving, it has come down to this: “Make one person laugh, make one person cry.” In that, the work is done.
you can read more of Devon’s writing at Sweet and Bitter Greens