I have chirped endlessly of Val’s artistic genius, and believe me when I tell you this is not me being kind at all. With each drawing inception by Val, I am more and more convinced that I would love a little apartment in her imaginarium. What she produces, is beyond fantastical, Val has the capacity to go from bugs, to skulls, to elegance, to gore, in a heartbeat and I SO LOVE her for it. In honour of Val’s birthday, I thought I would share some of her work, including writing, that’s right — Val is also a poet. So much talent in one human, I am so grateful to be able to call her my friend.

And I
An opal woman
Diffraction and mutable light
All and the nothingness
Of my mother and
The origins before her that
Sped along her prints 
The heirloom of threads 
Sewn into my confession 
Of birth 
A swinging door 
In proud beds 
Wrapping thunder around me 
Streaming in uncontrolled breath 
A mess of obsessions 
To flatter undeserving wonderlands
In preserving motion
To redress the betrayal Ieft
Embedded on the wombs 
That carried me 

There is a crafted leak that
I never bother to clean
And pretend its too delicate to pick up
I mouth the throw of my skin
And pretend that I'm not afraid
To hold my own hand

I follow the path at the shore of wrists
Laboring in the stretch of occasion
Until I can no longer
Smell the familiar idea of lines
Until I can no longer
Forgive the generosity of arms

Hands are an unusual affection 
Shutting into luminous caves
To mimic an intimate distance
To swallow a guilty space
To drive the rooted joint
To publish a desperate reach

I bend at the pause
That is measured at the depth of rebirth
Combing about an echo
Gathering the travels of
Wounded separation and edited arrivals
Counting on both hands the swivel of visits
One rotation at a time

Knuckles are submissive or indifferent
The anchors serve to fold
In the victory of tenure
In the severe fever of a stainless wish
In the flowery streams of shallow complexion
In breath of one more day, again

I repeat in grape streaking
A theme that springs from
My thin bouquet of tongue
And is the same title that 
Hauls along my forearms and 
Crawls through printed cues

The repetition destroys my palms
And I wonder who is still holding my hand
When I become a more interesting eulogy

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