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    Arco Iris
    Arco Iris
    Arco Iris
    Ebook80 pages52 minutes

    Arco Iris

    By Sarah Vap

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    About this ebook

    Sarah Vap’s newest book is a stunning collection of beautiful and frightening poemsIn her latest collection, Arco Iris, Sarah Vap explores race, tourism, market, history, intimacy, and the vulnerability of lives beneath the stamp of longstanding powers. Whiteness is considered through the action of travel in South America where white bodies disappear, or are invisible, or attempt to become irrelevant, or are impossible to destroy. These hallucinatory poems explore the subtle violence beneath the commonplace in a foreign land, a violence which underscores the naiveté of the traveler. As she writes in the haunting poem, “Trace”: The white and gold // fairy dust left of some spent bomb / settles // to the eyes of three children cuddling / in their hammock, belly-level of our boat.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSaturnalia Books
    Release dateOct 1, 2012
    ISBN9781617508349
    Arco Iris

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      Book preview

      Arco Iris - Sarah Vap

      Artaud

      Ghost

      We moved pretty slowly down,

      then across, then up, then across, then down.

      It was hard to tell what was important.

      Travel

      The continent spread apart then the continent condensed around us. Like the continent, we made an effort to remember. Memory, we thought at first, was something like pathos— and at the infinite remove—but memory was weight. Memory was the heavy mirror of history was shadow falling at your face—falling at your face.

      Heave

      We joined the tangle of heavy ghosts moaning out the strength of the patriarchs. Moaning out the impossible weight. Then we pulled the ghosts up by their chains to say: we will hurt you. We will tear you the fuck apart. We will hunt down your children we will hunt down your children’s children. We will never stop the ghosts wailed.

      Ghost

      The road is both narrow and wide

      and nobody pointed

      at us or hid the mouth or whispered horror

      or hallelujah as we moved by, though occasionally

      they gestured to our spines as if lifting them.

      As, I thought, the spines of fish are lifted clean away.

      Rider

      Begin with the memory of collapsing the ballerina back into the music box after she twirls in her white plastic dress slower then slower to somewhere over the rainbow. Her feet glued to the spring, she moved, I thought, as much as she possibly could. Loneliness across a whole life. Even here, in

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