THE NOMAD - deborah wood

The Nomad

deborah wood

She drowned in the desert at the age of twenty-seven. She was looking for the content of mania. Define. Defy. Define. Moon & jazz. Sand in her mouth, caught in between her teeth. Another wonder of the world.

In floating this stain upon the glass. Eclipsing pigments. These stains are orange, red, lemon-yellow. Articulating. Fish-hook & line. Moon & jazz.

The other day the old stump of an apple tree & the used skin of a snake was found on Mars. The heroes were sleeping. Atlantis was not drowned, but on a moon.

Lemon peels & rosemary mingled in Ziplock. Sliced chicken came and joined them. Fresh. The mark of her body on the cold sheets. Water turned to ice in the search for air. Water blending upon water. Hot & cold.

The mother taught her how to stir-fry. The mother taught her how to paint, a pair of lips on her face, a wet brush. Waiting for the metro.

When we were young our mothers taught us how to scuff our shoes on the pavement. Dragging our feet, scuffing rainbows on the bottom of our toes.

Deborah Wood's work has appeared in Lungfull!, Bird Dog, Transfer, and Nimble. She lives on the top of a hill in San Francisco. You can reach her at