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March 18, 2024 / barton smock

words toward Marco Wilkinson’s ‘Madder: A Memoir In Weeds’ (Coffee House Press, 2021)

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Madder
A Memoir In Weeds
Marco Wilkinson
Coffee House Press (2021)

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After reading Marco Wilkinson’s Madder, I’m sure age comes and goes but am not sure of the order or if there is an order. What embedded lyricism, what tended questioning. Among ahistoric ghosts, beneath cobwebs of unspun data in the garden of the historian, and in the slow hair of earth’s spidery dream, language here becomes a secret that tells itself and touch plants touch where it can taste its own exile. Origin, here, is folded in the thrice-ness of memory, movement, and mimicry. Trying to be the only thing in the world means one is close to being the last. Skin is made of stillness. Pictures die in the taking. Place comes from person. Sound has no father, but fathers proximity. This is a work that listens, leaves, and lifts. That corners nearness to give it space.

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reflection by Barton Smock
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