Self

One day I would like to have a collection of murices
a portraiture of the present
A perfect description of an object
The most precise of the shells I’d say

So easy it seems to call a thing a thing
but I often confuse what is elegant and
and what is profound with what is barely known
a teapot can always be polished
refined
made less of a burden

For that reason I will never wonder where I was
when great things happened
I will rely on paper and dust
an old broken sundial and of course
the tiny tiny holes in my marrow
Hips have always been cabinets for space
for loves
for sadness
and all things in between

I am a lucky girl who forgets she is a woman
who forgets she she has things to offer
who forgets she is more than a thing
more than a collection
more than a being
more than a daughter

I would like to go home to Carolina
And you must trust
I will not forget my shoes
Rocks and hills and a salt spray that sticks
It will always be that place to me
A definition of me
my speech
and my stories

Exposure is a dream I have
A way of sewing myself in place
Needle to skin will fasten everything
and keep a heavy head at bay

Please forgive me if I have said to much
the windows are open
and I am freezing




About the Author
Amory Casto: Growing up on the coast of North Carolina has always held a special place in my heart. I attended the College of Charleston in South Carolina and I relocated to Austin, Texas about four years ago. So, the South in particular has been the inspiration for most of my stories and poetry. I have always been a writer, but it has never felt more authentic than it does now. I have produced two of my plays here in Austin, and this summer I will spend time traveling in Puerto Rico working on my third screenplay.