Readings Newsletter
Become a Readings Member to make your shopping experience even easier.
Sign in or sign up for free!
You’re not far away from qualifying for FREE standard shipping within Australia
You’ve qualified for FREE standard shipping within Australia
The cart is loading…
This title is printed to order. This book may have been self-published. If so, we cannot guarantee the quality of the content. In the main most books will have gone through the editing process however some may not. We therefore suggest that you be aware of this before ordering this book. If in doubt check either the author or publisher’s details as we are unable to accept any returns unless they are faulty. Please contact us if you have any questions.
Catherine Carter’s first volume of poetry exudes a genuinely classical quality-cool-eyed and clear-eyed, intelligent, unsentimental, self-aware, and witty in the fullest and best sense. Carter takes our evolutionary development in the womb as a departure point for remembering or imagining our links with nonhuman animals, which make us feel both alien and alive. She writes of being
raised by wolves,
that
everyone marries into another species,
and of
hearing things
in the voices of the rattlesnake plantain or the apple core. With an offbeat, sometimes-gallows humor-the poems’ subjects range from roadkill to stingray-human sex to a traffic ticket for avoiding toads on the road-that looks at our connections of blood, home, and exile, The Memory of Gills nonetheless speaks of hope that we belong where we are.
Last night or rather this morning she called // on the telephone in my dream. She thought it was // Thanksgiving, and she didn’t know she was dead. // I didn’t want to tell her she was dead, or going to die // this May, which in the dream was still next May. I told her // about the job I still had last Thanksgiving, // tried to remember. My mother was there and spoke // to her; no one knew quite what to say // except love – and before that I woke up. // She called, across six months, six feet; // she called us, and we didn’t know how to go // or what to say. Dead was too heavy, we couldn’t // say that; we couldn’t say anything really. Except love, // which this one time ought to have been enough, // but, as it always is, was nothing like enough. - The Telephone in My Dream
$9.00 standard shipping within Australia
FREE standard shipping within Australia for orders over $100.00
Express & International shipping calculated at checkout
This title is printed to order. This book may have been self-published. If so, we cannot guarantee the quality of the content. In the main most books will have gone through the editing process however some may not. We therefore suggest that you be aware of this before ordering this book. If in doubt check either the author or publisher’s details as we are unable to accept any returns unless they are faulty. Please contact us if you have any questions.
Catherine Carter’s first volume of poetry exudes a genuinely classical quality-cool-eyed and clear-eyed, intelligent, unsentimental, self-aware, and witty in the fullest and best sense. Carter takes our evolutionary development in the womb as a departure point for remembering or imagining our links with nonhuman animals, which make us feel both alien and alive. She writes of being
raised by wolves,
that
everyone marries into another species,
and of
hearing things
in the voices of the rattlesnake plantain or the apple core. With an offbeat, sometimes-gallows humor-the poems’ subjects range from roadkill to stingray-human sex to a traffic ticket for avoiding toads on the road-that looks at our connections of blood, home, and exile, The Memory of Gills nonetheless speaks of hope that we belong where we are.
Last night or rather this morning she called // on the telephone in my dream. She thought it was // Thanksgiving, and she didn’t know she was dead. // I didn’t want to tell her she was dead, or going to die // this May, which in the dream was still next May. I told her // about the job I still had last Thanksgiving, // tried to remember. My mother was there and spoke // to her; no one knew quite what to say // except love – and before that I woke up. // She called, across six months, six feet; // she called us, and we didn’t know how to go // or what to say. Dead was too heavy, we couldn’t // say that; we couldn’t say anything really. Except love, // which this one time ought to have been enough, // but, as it always is, was nothing like enough. - The Telephone in My Dream