THE GIFT OF A BOOK
SELF
OTHER
SELF
I am.
ONE
OTHER
SELF
In this collection of everyday surrealistic poems, stories, and drawings, Enza Marie explores the spaces between self and other, future and past, outward and inward.
Deep Low Bow: Poems & Stories of Impermanence & Love was created within this balance, and speaks to the gentle romantic in us, all the while delving into the slippery sha
In this collection of everyday surrealistic poems, stories, and drawings, Enza Marie explores the spaces between self and other, future and past, outward and inward.
Deep Low Bow: Poems & Stories of Impermanence & Love was created within this balance, and speaks to the gentle romantic in us, all the while delving into the slippery shadows of separation, mystery, nostalgia, and energy…brilliant, connected, divine.
One of our advance readers calls it “a light; the most beautiful thing I have read in a long, long time, with so much nutritive value. This is a book I would give to my best friend to read before sleep.”
In opening to any page of Deep Low Bow, the reader is invited to reflect upon the magic at their own front door and the transformative power of what's left beh
OTHER
OTHER
OTHER
We are.
A Glimpse
(Caressence)
(Caressence)
(Caressence)
Please, let us return to
tenderness as much as possible. When sly, wiry hairs raise up
a continental divide,
seeping heart, black strap slow,
twisting a course of two-faced
veins, let there be a
remembrance of oxygen.
Let us breathe in through
bare feet a composted
constellation, solid, liquid, gas,
of all that has broken us.
Tight lungs a
Please, let us return to
tenderness as much as possible. When sly, wiry hairs raise up
a continental divide,
seeping heart, black strap slow,
twisting a course of two-faced
veins, let there be a
remembrance of oxygen.
Let us breathe in through
bare feet a composted
constellation, solid, liquid, gas,
of all that has broken us.
Tight lungs awakening to
the scents of abandon, rejection
and ignorance to mingle the steaming pile of our
half cracked seeds and bitter peelings, our empty shells
and grinds, heating from
inside to rise,
to dust a deep summer sky
and recycle out
to star sparking lines.
To a full-on-gorgeous caress,
fleshed out with
patience and time.
(True Blue)
(Caressence)
(Caressence)
Dear Oxygen,
I know I haven’t
written in a while.
I’m sorry. I’ve been stuck
just outside Heaven and Hell,
the gases here thinner,
farther reaching,
but yesterday I remembered
how we used to
wake up together and
dive deeply into
each other’s
eyes
before going
on with our day.
(DIY)
(Caressence)
(DIY)
Someone stepped on my toes
in line at the grocery store and
didn’t say they were sorry. Boxes
of dry, clattery stuff pushing
forward, invading my space,
conveying convenience,
crossing the line of my
black plastic bar.
When I turned around in
scorn, I pulled an old muscle
in my hip. Seeing no one behind,
no one before, my toe
Someone stepped on my toes
in line at the grocery store and
didn’t say they were sorry. Boxes
of dry, clattery stuff pushing
forward, invading my space,
conveying convenience,
crossing the line of my
black plastic bar.
When I turned around in
scorn, I pulled an old muscle
in my hip. Seeing no one behind,
no one before, my toes spread wide. So wide I stepped on them again. Bit my tongue. Grabbed some organic sugar-free mints in a snowflake magic-palace tin and
climbed, pick-axing mind, to the top, did an upward dog, bark-barked out loud, raised my leg and fell-down upon my face. Upon
my wrinkled remembrance. My fog of gratitude. The smiling cashier gave me a treat anyway and I tossed it, overhead, to a guy in line, who caught it high. “Good boy!”
“Good boy!” he said.
