Sonya Cotton

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Red River Cover Red River

 1.  Wild Wind
 2.  Red River
 3.  Bear
 4.  Hunters
 5.  Brother and I
 6.  Hilltop Hymn
 7.  Canal
 8.  Knowing Mother
 9.  Sickness
10.  Song For Tony
11.  Cold And Dreamless

Wild Wind. What we spy from tops of trees: deer eyes, horses feet. All that we could ever hope to know of God. Your deepest eyes lean into me. These boughs they move with the wind, these boughs will hold us free. In setting night our city burns with light. What I live for: not these chasing days. It's in the passing wild wind. The howling dogs, my howling blood for you, my howling dog. The sage, the wood, the whistling trains, the love I've found, the love that waits, the song, the song, the eyes, the feet, the mountaintops, the bells still ringing, oh the song, oh the singing, how to hold, how to know how to hold.

Red River. I am driving careless, you are holding your white hands. Birds are singing siren songs over the land. We're on the trail of something toothed and dangerous. Oh lord, what we find could bury us. Oh red river, choose the red river, rocks are falling to the sea. The air is clear and shining, the water is waiting. Willow trees are whispering keep a hand in the wind. Soon there comes a place to stop, a forest rim cold and stark, what we find you say don't you look, keep your eyes in the dark. In this broken body is a red river, we will wait with our faith for this pile of bones, for this red river, furious, for to rise. Though the clouds are coming in, this body is stirring, our vessel is waiting, don't be afriad, there is glory ahead. Oh, great wings are flying above, slow and calm. Soon our hands will turn to feathers and float away.

Bear. Bidding goodbye through the wire fence we raised in the middle of the wood. I am here and you are gone, but the sky still stretches for miles and miles. Old Jack dog, I hold him close, and her buries his face in my side. Make a bed, make a home of this ground. Dying leaves of the east, and the bear in the shadows, I can feel him in my heart. What of the puzzle we carved from the tree? Oh, to tear down this wire, I can just can't figure! Old Jack dog, hold on, I'll love you til the end. But I'm still asleep, reaching for the lake, for my home. The room was flooded, wires were waving, threatening lightning. And I was fumbling in the dark, my crying mouth was lost to yours. Then came the plains, clearing thorns, eyes filled with stars. And you watched me go over treacherous stones, you watched me go. Now picture a visit, half-hearted return, it's better to wait til the water is dead to make a bed, make a home of this ground. But I'm still asleep, reaching for the lake, for my home.

Hunters. Hunters in the wood, silent with their guns cocked and drawn. The belly of the swan is safe and buried in the swamp. Rotting roadside mule, ears are bending out, sweet like a dog. Dusty from the cars, eyes are pecked and gone. Passing by, we all sigh hard. Oh, the love never grown from the belly bent 'round the post. Still we're breathing with barrels of hope for the love never seen, never grown. White feathers of surrender floating in the murky water, oh the cold water, leave us to the water, let our blue bellies grow. They're kneeling in the snow, posing with the body breathing still, oh, and over the arrow rise the ever-lasting eyes, oh the dead. And we'll unfold like a dream, edges lined in blue and gray. Blue in our bellies, blue in our veins, oh we'll unfold like a dream.

Brother and I. I wake in the rain and a fire is burning inside. The dream of the stains on my hands wasn't just a dream. All in chains we follow lights to the ocean to stand for a picture. And in the night we steal away to the staggering woods, and the moonlight. We drown and we waste ourselves, and wander under trees, they make our bowers. Oh canal, how you breathe into every step that we've taken. Oh canal, how you breathe into every step that we take. Boulders rise and clouds shine, all is black and gray. The ground is heavy with sorrow, it cradles us still. And we dream to build a bridge to carry us over this torrent. But every rock is so far and we cannot stomach the height. Again and again this nightmare we have dreamt, Lord let it end! Winter comes and we drive to the lake in the evening. We say through the rain how we tried, how we tried just to love. But it's our vessel now, and we trumpet the weight of our losses. Yes it's our vessel now and we sing for being alone. This place we call home, we cannot call it for long, pack up your things.

Hilltop Hymn. The truth in this dreaming that the hilltops in the distance are waiting. Just a half a circle now, threads of gold in the soil hold the promise of a green and glowing joy. And the ground that's arising in your heart fills your red rivers thick with vines. They are growing wide, they are shooting stars burning softly through your belly and your arms. And pulling through your breath the fated tune, finding hymns in every thorn and every bloom, then the terrible sight: the tomato and the vine crushed to die in the middle of the road. There beside the deer and the dog. But you know he would kiss them if he could, and you hope to find him there upon the hilltop. Under hovering hawks, under shooting stars, under clouds rising all in time.

Canal. Oh canal, weighing heavy as the borders abridge in time. In my bed I dream of lightning for to spark this muddy brine. Spill it swiftly, make a canyon, let it soak and stain the ground. Show the bodies at the bottom for what they are: carious, hidden long in currents strong. Did he think they would never be found? They are all mine now. And I beg her: build this grave with your barren hands of gray. And the bloodstains in the sand will give you life, will give you breathe for to rise. What is good and what is true in the woods behind your home? In the rows and rows of pews and the holy light shining down. Soft faces, soft hands of our blood, the yellow cross upon the flag. I will hold it high above my head, and I'll cry for mothers of mine. Mother, stay here beside your rosary, you will not be lost to the ground, you are all mine now.

Knowing Mother. Knowing mother, come and find me, cradle my head, shake my fevered legs free. This bed's burning life from my heart, your hands like water, your water my blood. Knowing lover, come through the door, cover my body, my body with yours. The wind in your hair will breathe into mine, caves of light will grow down from your spine. I dream and I dream til I don't anymore, look what the fire has done to me now. A silence, a hunger, an echo, I pray: Oh mother close, Oh lover change!

Sickness. Sickness found a home today, crept in through the silences. You say it's in the river and the rain, you say we can't escape. Brace your arms around you tight, and dread the sliding mountainside. You'll fade, your eyes will fade, you say you'll fade. And someday there will be blood. Someday worse than this wrecking wind. So build your walls with wisdom, build your walls so strong. But if we trace this sickness back to the ripples and currents, can't we name them useless? Can't we drown them down? I want to know the trees that you dream, and drink your water faithfully. To climb with a reckless heart, to hold you through the night. Someday it will be clear, the hurricane will hit the river. Below swelling arches of water, wind and ground, we'll lay our bodies down, my love.

Song For Tony. All of the knots you tie, wielding feather and thread, to build a hook, to build a tree, a river red. And for a good meal tonight we gather round table lace, warm fire burns at our feet, and we are safe. You are brave atop cold rocks and whistling on mountaintops. Say where in this treasure we may find the bones, digging through gently we color our hands. And say I was born from your very blood, and born to sing now, and dig now. Sing me the rhyme of the skin and the ocean, the street songs are rising up through the window, so sing now, eat now, and speak now. Trees in the yard bare us figs, they're growing purple and ripe. We fill our bellies and our pockets high. You are brave atop cold rocks and whistling on mountaintops. Say where in this treasure we may find the seeds to throw to the breeze. And see the lines in my face from your face, the shape of my teeth from your teeth. Stand by my side and watch for the ripples, the salmon are rising up from the river, so sing now, eat now, and speak now.

Cold And Dreamless. Cold and dreamless, the fog is rising fast and high. But the weight in your whispers may echo still in chimes. Quit your mirror-looking while there are bodies on the floor. One's in the open, still bleeding, one's torn in the side. Your sideways smiling is leaving me so cold. Let us hold fast this last light with our hands, let's get us on the road.


"Out of the Ocean" Cover Out of the Ocean 
  1. The Dim and the Dark Light
  2. Baby Isabella
  3. Tumbleweeds
  4. Open Owl Face
  5. The Dying Light
  6. Churchbells
  7. Words
  8. The Light Around Your Legs
  9. These Days
  10. Quiet Faith
  11. Frozen Hands

The Dim and the Dark Light. Quiet words as you first put your hand on my head. Sleeping songs for the tunnel over our bed. Broken ground from the first snow when I realized I would let you go. Winter wind and the sound of the train and the heartbreaking telephone ring. These shaking hands are useless to fight your strong and armored ghost. Then, in the darkness steady and great comes the sound of your voice in the middle of the lake. Oh our weak arms and Oh our strong love, the fire inside the dim and the dark light. How I miss your sleeping eyes in the dim and the dark light.

Baby Isabella. We took turns carrying the baby as she moaned, her legs aching. I watched her fill your arms, little heavy body, and I loved you deeply in our complicated way. The ground lay open, waiting (with floating magnolias worn and fading,) for us to stop our dreaming, finally embrace. The little one between us, once and for all, perfect and still.

Tumbleweeds. Black night floods through my eyes like holes in frozen ground. Oh I forget what it feels like to feel strong. So I trace the circle on my arm. Make stiff conversation, you’ve caught me again with knots in my palms and my head full of storms. And you will stay until tumbleweeds tumble by, until the dusk has wings, until my eyes are dry. In the fire that we reap, though some stubborn nights may drown us deep, salted, soaked and blind, we’re not running out of time. And way back when we all were smaller it seems like smiles flowed like water, it makes me wonder what you’d look like saying “this is it,” or with a baby on your hip. So make loose conversation, we won’t get caught again with knots in our palms and our heads full of storms. And you will stay until tumbleweeds tumble by, until the dusk has wings, until my eyes are dry. We’re not running out of time.

Open Owl Face. Gray morning dove of feather and bone, she’s bleeding at the wing and dying for home. It’s a heartbreaking time, everybody knows, to finally be free, and bleeding at the wing. Where comes the line between giving up and trying when your open owl face is oceans away. You’re oceans away. Where has my vessel gone? They’ve stolen it for a boat, and my gray walls have flooded now, look what they’ve done. What I’d give to hold your open owl face, but your long-lidded blinks are oceans away. You’re oceans away.

The Dying Light. When the scar on my hand was a wound, torn open, bleeding loose, you were there to hold in the blood. Your mouth around my hand, I want it there again. And to lie piled in the corner, and to watch the dying light, as the walls cave and cradle us, shutting out the cold cold night. It’s happened before, where out of the ocean, out of the blue, came you. The time has nearly come for you to come again.

Churchbells. Ghost weeping, broken city, buries completely the glory of the sound that we found in our hands and over our bed. But seasons change. What remains in porcelain walls miles from the ground? I am beckoning the sound of church bells to carry me home. Oh church bells, carry me home. Oh church bells. Oh climbing vines. Oh wooden walls. Oh glorious sound.

Words. We sit around tables and watch it go by, drinking our wine, saying ‘nothing changes and nothing ever will.’ You’re leaving tomorrow. I’m leaving tonight. The words are whatever we say. Don’t try to delay, what words are you going to say? That you’re leaving tonight? Then I’m leaving today. Are you leaving tonight? Then I’m leaving today. What words are you going to say? What words am I going to say?

The Light Around Your Legs. Running through the graves, blue roses around our necks. Past the grand stone house where you once held my body up. There I spilled my summer secrets of a car wreck, your bleeding head. There I lay and prayed for all that I might someday say. Lord, do you remember the light around your legs? Then I wrapped your legs around me, filling my belly from the drought. Rosewater and wine spilled in waves from my mouth. Lord, do you remember the light around your legs?

These Days. These days I sing beneath siren screams. These days I only want to sleep and dream. So the battles of evening might retreat with the break of day. So I may wake with shining eyes and cradling arms at my side. The hawk’s cry sounding for miles through the endless wandering pines. But the wind’s blowing ashes through these lonely rotting streets. The sound of my steps buried like a shipwreck, rising ghosts in the strangers I see. These days I sing beneath siren screams. These days I’ve got little to say. What am I losing in these lonely rotting streets? You say you miss me darling, well I miss you too, my sweet.

Quiet Faith. We walked the riverbed, bones of the great whales glowing. Cold wind knotted our hair, whipped down the wood with a gallant glare. I watched the moon ripple and rise as ghosts were filling up your eyes. Slow as the withering tide, quiet as the sparrows cry. By the time I saw your hands they were torn and bleeding red. Reaching fast and fast in vain, you had already turned away. Oh the meadow spotted red, the dusty barn we’d sleep in, the rickety boat we’d row from the cove, the burning of the old woodstove. If I dropped the sturdy wheel to chase the spirits up the hill, would I ever find you? Lord, you know I never do. But I can wait with quiet faith. With quiet faith, yes, I can wait.

Frozen Hands. Your frozen hands, purple and gray, sew lullabies of wild horse’s mane. Your frozen hands comb my morning head of knots and briars and demons from my bed. White bone buries and breaks while blood flows in waves, like waves. And you’re in mine always.