Tag Archives: Perugia Press

Inventing the Shadow, 1899 by Catherine Anderson

Illuminator of delicate foot bones
and dental caries, my father’s machine flashes,
then disappears into the blur of folklore.

A switch sent crackling waves between
two wires, then voila! a spirit-print, an X-ray.
Found in the cellar, decades later: sheets

of skeletal arms and hands shelved in dust
like Freud’s dreams of his own anxiety—
forgotten, then recalled—the dream

of leaving home naked,
or of teeth falling out like hail stones.
High on a shelf rests my father’s invention,

a tango dance of round coils in a box
of black bakelite and red mahogany,
the grain polished so deep I could show you

the original forest growing within.
Get to know your shadow he would tell me
through ringlets of smoke.

None of us in the whole of our lives
will ever be seen for who we are.
Once, in an experiment to see what

could happen next, I tore up my shadow, then
pitched the little pieces out the window
just to watch them scatter,

lit like snow in moonlight,
my naked shadow—
hissing and swirling in the dry black.

Catherine Anderson is the author of The Work of Hands (Perugia Press) and In the Mother Tongue (Alice James Books). Her third collection, Woman with a Gambling Mania, appeared in 2014 with Mayapple Press and was named as one of the Kansas City Star’s top books of the year.


The Name of a Tree by Catherine Anderson

Today’s Poetry Pick comes from Catherine Anderson’s second book  of poetry titled “The Work of Hands,” published in 2000 by Perugia Press, whose mission it is “to produce beautiful books that interest long-time readers of poetry and welcome those new to poetry.”


Right here on Ash Street, Ana says, she used to stagger
up the stairs like a drunk.
There was no light, so she patted the wall,
following hardened gum and kick marks.
Those were crazy days she tells me –
two kids, no money, no job –
when English made the sound of click, swish,
money gliding from a cash drawer,
and the only words she knew were numbers –
seventy-five cents ringing down the throat
of a soda machine, her soapy fingers counting quarters
to feed the dryer.

Some days I am Ana’s teacher, some days she is mine.
This morning we look through her kitchen window,
The one she can’t get clean, cobwebs massed
between sash and pane. The sky is blue-gold, almost
the color of home. Ana, I say, each winter
I get more lonely. Both of us would like the sun
to linger as that round fruit in June, but Ana says
it’s better to forget what you used to know:
the taste of fish cooked in banana leaves,
the rose color of sea waves at dusk,
the names for clouds and wild storms, and a tree
that grows, she says, as full
as a flame in the heart of all countries
south of here.

Catherine’s book is informed by her work with immigrants and refugees and explores the pathos involved in such work. Her poem “Womanhood,” which was chosen by Billy Collins’ “Poetry 180” project, can be read at poets.org