Book: Between Lovers
Written by Sheri-D Wilson (Arsenal Pulp Press)

Reviewed by Erick Mertz


It is the last train out of town and it's just streamed past. The fee for a rental car far exceeds the cash in your pocket. As it is getting late, and all the signs above the inns read "No Vacancy," a late dinner and cocktail brings midnight nearer. You slip a few Euros into the theater manager's hand and he ushers you in. A dark theater, away from the summer night's heat might allow for a few hours' sleep; double feature could make for close to a full night's rest.

You didn't look at the marquee coming in, as theater seats were the main attraction and the small room is stuffy. The projector flickers to life and instantly, the images of antiquarian erotica - real burlesque - splashes across the screen. Sleep suddenly takes a back seat; sinking in, the lush flicker of flesh lasts till early morning. After leaving the theater a few precious moments before sunrise for a more pedestrian destination like breakfast, the images come up everywhere: on the cover of the paper, on the train schedule board, moreover, on the very fabric of your brain.

Canadian poet and performer Sheri-d Wilson works just this way. Her lush, exotic tones turn pages in her book Between Lovers something more brilliant than plain black and white. After closing its cover, the double entendre in the title becomes more evident as Wilson elucidates not only the spaces between lover's bodies but also the words passed between them in negotiation.

Poetry like Wilson's doesn't read; it lends itself to performance. "Blue Heart Clown" is a thick, three-ring circus act of smoke, mirror and lyrical razzmatazz. "You and I, we're tripsy-gypsyites, lucky horseshoes / nailed gold-up, above drifting doors, well traveled." Lines like these - long, beat heavy tongue tripping lines, abound in Between Lovers. To the eye they're perhaps clunky; read out loud they become that rare flooding verse, joyously filled with frolic and confession. One can't help but roll over, flushed with warm giggles when whispering pieces of "Between The Legs of Lovers," a provocative waltz through Paris. "Slides between right bank air / Two women mid-elongated kiss / sitting at an corner outdoor cafe / Erotically charged manifestation superseding non-belief." Carving out only the most tactile moments in the sensual drive of "Indian Ocean Said Your Name," a string of feelings straight from a DH Lawrence book emerges. Like the English author, Wilson knows where to eroticize the landscape - 'kindling' after all is more stirringly sexual than firewood.

Feminine erotica - tartly rendered, yet not too far over the top - comes courtesy of character Leticia Knight and comprises the bulk of subject matter contained throughout the body of Between Lovers. One is left with the impression that plural 'lovers' relates also to the myriad of lovers taken by Knight. Eyes are always wandering, and no one's house is locked tight enough to stall out that invasive spy of love. There are secrets to tell; everyone in Between Lovers has them, it's just a matter of withdrawl. Her lovers are free to harbor, share and ultimately come emancipated to live out the darkest, most carnally exciting fantasy they can unleash.

Nothing short of devastating is Between Lovers' effect. Like spring everywhere, once it enters you, the first warm sleepless night is only the beginning.

© 2003 - Erick Mertz