Abstract
91 DAWN MANNING At the Lost Children’s Memorial Garden Brother decodes headstones , speaks in pencil—his mind working at the speed of charcoal reveals fine grain texture by friction: lead stuttering past deckled pulp edges, the gray-blacks of his reliefs sweeping along gaps between maple veins, fern fingers. His scarred wrist steers rainbows of wooden caterpillars dreameating white space: he riddles stained glass wings into ash-soft crumble, maps the valleys of stone-carved names— spans their births and deaths through careful cindersmudging —absence translated into salt white streams 92 of negative space. He blows shed cocoons of soot and eraser dust off into the black widow’s web, his eyes shackled to the last two names etched in granite, still undated, his stone rubbings gleaming mirror flat. ...
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