but Webster’s: too large to be comprehended in our entirety.
Little bodies moored in this dimension,
souls reaching through shadowy layers
where three-dimensional senses can’t see
or hear or taste or smell. Words
have no meaning. All around us,
almost-significant beauties tempt us
to touch them, and we reach out in prayersong.
Suppose we are singers of the starry deep,
descending and transcending the inside-out abyss.
Suppose we are leviathan, learning to swim infinity.
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Candyce Byrne was raised by gypsies—no, not really. In a peripatetic military family. That experience convinced her that old beliefs never die but rather bob just below the surface of what we naïvely call reality. Her two beautiful sons grew up on Childe ballads and local theatre. She lives in a mythical Texas town with her husband of nearly 40 years, a pediatrician, and an aging dire wolf called Al—well, really half border collie/half Labrador retriever, but she's big and black and hairy and the mail lady is terrified of her.
Bay Laurel / Volume 1, Issue 1 / Autumn 2012