Lisbeth White (she/they) is a lover of the earth, wanderer of lands, poet, dancer, expressive arts therapist, Kemetic Reiki practitioner, elemental energy healer, listener, and ancestor celebrant. A 2016 Pushcart Prize nominee, Lisbeth is an alumna of VONA, Bread Loaf Environmental Conference, Tin House, and Callaloo Creative Writing Workshops. Her poetry has appeared in Obsidian: Literature & Arts in the African Diaspora, The Rumpus, Kweli, Blue Mountain Review, Apogee, the anthology Fire and Rain: Ecopoetry of California, and elsewhere. She holds a dual BA in Creative Writing and Sociology as well as an MA in Counseling Psychology. You can find her digitally at her website or Instagram.
Hull
By Lisbeth WhiteAdded: Friday, March 12, 2021 / Used with permission.At the end of the field are tracks
train metal iron sound called whistle
to me a blare that splits air before it
warning edging along these stretches
of cotton cut low and brown from winter
white stuffs webbed and molding they say
so much is wasted using machines
walking down rows i want
to take my clothes off strip
cotton sweater from my shoulders
cotton jeans from my thighs
i pick a small piece marvel
at its fluff the resilient web
as i pull the bundle apart but how it binds
to itself fibers holding until a yank
of extreme force even then
i have never felt anything so
soft more gentle than air i bring
it to trace the rim of my lips
as i am compelled to do with all
soft things as if they can salve
the wound of my mouth my father
picked this as a child with his sisters
younger said the plants were spined sharp
even careful they came away with
cuticles bloody fingertips pierced i try
to believe him with this softness in my hands
now so ethereal i can’t tell
if it is here or evaporating like
memory angelic this bud
used to swab wounds swaddle
babies clean the very blood it pricked
forth the train cracks its horn again
chugging its sound of movement of
going through this field
of known pain this field i want
to be naked in what am i doing
with what i know of history
when i slip this small piece of raw
cotton into my tank top against my breasts
its smoothness enveloped i can’t feel it’s difference
from my own skin
Listen as Lisbeth White reads "Hull".