Fissured Tongue Series
Don't You Know All You Need is Sky
by Tor Strand
Fissured Tongue Series Vol VI | May 2025
by Tor Strand
Fissured Tongue Series Vol VI | May 2025
"Ripe Fruit" by Serge Lecomte. Acrylic on canvas, 22 x 24 inches, 2023
Don't You Know All You Need is Sky
Full on & fast around the corners, my father always took them with ease,
jolting but in it, unwaveringly there in the high part of the mind
just behind his hairline which isn’t all too bad for a man in his
late 60s. He is almost to Whitehorse. Driving with him was
a way of knowing him, then. The way he’d point to the
horizon, or the elk, its hide darkened for rut. The way
he clung to the idea of fatherhood like buying me
red-hot fireballs at the Chevron after my YMCA
ball games. The chance to choke on that burning
sugar for cents on the dollar. The way he tries
on this memory now hoping maybe still that
I am wearing that oversized penny, hints
of cold sweat & something he knew
about me. Some part of himself.
He is almost to Whitehorse,
my brother by his side &
the roads are only wet
until they aren’t— black ice
a flipped car & glass
& them spread over
tundra—they paused
there, the horizon
gone belly up,
they paused into
the god of them,
perhaps it was
the sum of all
that shine
only knowable
of tundra that
saved them--
a cracked rib,
a spliced
hand. Perhaps
what I am still
wanting
of him
deep
in that
frost.
jolting but in it, unwaveringly there in the high part of the mind
just behind his hairline which isn’t all too bad for a man in his
late 60s. He is almost to Whitehorse. Driving with him was
a way of knowing him, then. The way he’d point to the
horizon, or the elk, its hide darkened for rut. The way
he clung to the idea of fatherhood like buying me
red-hot fireballs at the Chevron after my YMCA
ball games. The chance to choke on that burning
sugar for cents on the dollar. The way he tries
on this memory now hoping maybe still that
I am wearing that oversized penny, hints
of cold sweat & something he knew
about me. Some part of himself.
He is almost to Whitehorse,
my brother by his side &
the roads are only wet
until they aren’t— black ice
a flipped car & glass
& them spread over
tundra—they paused
there, the horizon
gone belly up,
they paused into
the god of them,
perhaps it was
the sum of all
that shine
only knowable
of tundra that
saved them--
a cracked rib,
a spliced
hand. Perhaps
what I am still
wanting
of him
deep
in that
frost.
***
|
About the Author
Tor Strand is a Fishtrap Fellow and recipient of the Mari Sandoz Emerging Writer award. He was also selected as the 2023 Margery Davis Boyden Wilderness Writing Resident. Tor’s poetry and essays have been published in the Colorado Review, Salt Hill Journal, Fugue, and elsewhere. He is currently an MFA candidate in poetry at Oregon State University. Find more work at torstrand.org. *About the Work
I wanted to create a poem that felt like a diminishing of space. Form felt particularly important. Well, form should feel important in any poem, but in this one, I wanted to create something striking on the surface since the subject matter portrays one of the many ways we lose traction in life and memory—especially in childhood—so having the lines taper is an attempt to show that diminishment. I often think about pacing in poetry—as a reader as well as a writer—and what tools we have as writers to control the speed at which the poem moves and since this is a poem about the loss of control of a vehicle, I hoped to create a kind of desperation through the form and syntax. *About the Author’s Process
Ironically, I don’t feel as if I have too much control of my writing process either. I am finishing up my MFA at Oregon State right now and in workshop we have been discussing the value of trusting the language and the art of poetry in the drafting process. That is, if you hand over the reins of your mind to the art it might know a little more than you, where the poem ought to go. |
About the Artist
Serge Lecomte was born in Belgium. He came to the States where he spent his teens in South Philly and then Brooklyn. After graduating from Tilden H. S. he joined the Medical Corps in the Air Force. He earned an MA and Ph.D. from Vanderbilt University in Russian Literature with a minor in French Literature. He worked as a Green Beret language instructor at Fort Bragg, NC from 1975-78. In 1988 he received a B.A. from the University of Alaska Fairbanks in Spanish Literature. He worked as a language teacher at the University of Alaska (1978-1997). He worked as a house builder, pipe-fitter, orderly in a hospital, gardener, landscaper, driller for an assaying company, and bartender. "I began my life as a writer, publishing numerous poetry collections and graduating to novels and plays and now paintings. My artwork could be described as somewhat surreal. Crossed realities usually yield amazing and sometimes shocking results. I would describe my art as eclectic. The natural world is in constant flux and so animals and plants mutate to create a surreal tapestry. Nothing is ever as it is “supposed to be.” The images are a blend of the natural world and imaginary creatures. But then you see what you want to see and hear what you want to hear." |
