Her Language Candesces Moon glow surrounds the campsite— where memories are mad in the dark and waterfalls form clouds of fractured perfection. Mother said, Be careful in the woods. Mama said, Be part of the black soil—cultivate your mind with blood, howls, and pine needles. Her language candesces the wildflowers where the hollow earth churns and graves plead for salivation. She is a resurrection where life springs out of blood and baptisms. She is my first world—more might than myth. Histories lost in universes undiscovered. Her palms read like sunshine dancing on water filled mason jars, at six o’clock Sunday evenings left outside after rain breaks. Mama—what does your voice look like? She says, “like this, —
Robyn Leigh Lear was born to the world, but she claims no country. Her soul dances through the North Carolina hills, her heart beats for the history of Savannah, GA, but her eyes look longingly toward deep, unexplored corners of the Southern landscape. Her writing is a combination of chaos and searching, and perhaps her history reflects this lack of direction.
Grand Little Things 