Kristina Marie Darling Review + Broadsides
Scorched Altar is a hybrid master work. Kristina Maria Darling’s fractured bits lent themselves perfectly to “meta” moments. I beg her indulgence and yours, reader, in reviewing this work using Darling’s own phrases, reassembled. ~ Sarah Ann Winn
Review Cento of Kristina Marie Darling’s Scorched Altar: Selected Poems & Stories 2007-2014
I had wished for the collection,
now my covetous eye casts over
each of the charms. A constellation.
Always night, always a listless moon as
a shape that fades or becomes narrow.
The necessary progression from an object to interpretation.
When I ask why
the evening had been opened,
the gears in her heart begin to turn.
Their otherworldly debris, humming.
Their song waxes with her restlessness.
What is there left to do but wait?
Only when she lifted its lid,
these transformations, while enigmatic,
nod their heads, listening intently.
The book as field guide
wanted to transcend the ordinary
task of curator:
maintain a record,
an effort to balance desire with restraint.
Wanted to preserve the light,
to preserve the sequence,
to catalogue, sort and procure
a museum of memorable objects:
their faultless order,
their careful illumination, the delicate balance of brightness and dark.
Anxiety about losing and perhaps also maintaining
the most elaborate pieces of an altar.
I wanted to see
her small storehouse,
wished the pursuit would continue indefinitely.
I started to wonder where
we’d follow maps of the night sky.
What does it mean to cross?
I didn’t expect to see
the innermost workings
that the house reveals, harbors, conceals:
gathered all of the broken,
an uncanny brightness in every window.
Clothes look darker than they did before.
It’s hard to know what
grows colder and colder.
The house was haunted.
The marriage was haunted.
The smallest parcel shows its frozen worlds,
a state of mourning for the lost object.
The book’s about wedding.
Consider the graceful line,
an elegant universe,
all thistle and frost.
This woman sings and sings
an homage to some other life.
Every back light seems to smolder.