Sunday Poems XII: On a Monday

OK gang, here’s another Monday issue of Sunday Poems. An exquisitely rare beast. Christmas is as busy a time as possible. Like many people around this time of year, I’ve also been dealing with a seasonal slump in mood. I’ve been dealing with it by alternating sleeping a lot and sleeping very little; an oscillation between quietness and workaholism.

As a project for the new year, I’m going to start sending out a monthly reading list of books and articles I’ve enjoyed that month, elaborated by brief comments on why you might want to read them. I want to do this to better track my own reading—I find myself often struggling to remember what I’ve read recently, even when they were books I thought made a bit impact on me—but also to share what I’ve found with my friends, and everyone else who might be interested. I’m shooting to send out the pilot reading list on New Years eve, so if you’d like to recieve it, sign up by clicking here.

Sundays or Mondays are good days for reflection. Really, any day is. But pick one to sit down and really think. Try sitting on the floor. When was the last time you did that? Figure out how your body works in a new position. The body and the mind are inextricable, so try thinking with your body for a little bit. If that doesn’t work, maybe you can do a little bit of dancing with your mind. Let me know how it goes. Below is a poem and I hope it helps you to dance, think, or whatever else you should enjoy.

Here and There


you admire
the spot of imperfection
causing reflections in the glass.

you shine the laser pointer
which is the cat’s favourite toy
at the spot.

to my perception
the laser arrives instantly
and explodes.

i put my hand over my face
and parts of the laser
are on my hand.

you kick your feet
onto the green couch
matted through with cat hair.

it’s only when you forget about time
that your brain works for you
otherwise, it’s a timepiece.

otherwise you can’t remove
what you want to remove.

we are on our own
and never on our knees.

we are trying.

will you try with me?

matted hair,
matted feelings.

taking apart some of me
to make some of you.
we drive up nerves.


we have to break something.

you run around
what can we break?
what can me make shatter.

we reverse the video
it puts itself back togehter.

someone lights a candle.

i don’t remember things very well.

we used to talk about movies after
we’d stared at them for a while
you always talked more

take off some part of me
take off some part of you.

we make a custard dessert,
mixing together dairy free milk
and egg free eggs
and i take a bit of it on my finger
and rub it on your nose
and you hate this
but then i lick it off your nose
and you’re ok with that.

everybody is small
everybody breaks apart
under enough strain.

we move between
sickness and wellness.

you told me
“when i wake up in the morning
my stomach hurts every day”
and i said me too
and we kissed, grimacing over
our anxiety-induced digestive distress.

we flip a coin
to decide
what sort of tea to drink
and we take turns
pouring tea from the pot’s spout
into each other’s mouth.

sometimes we pour too fast.

sometimes we are halfway in between
this and that,
here and clear.


and later,
we’re across the internet from each other.

looking at a drawing of a labrynth on the floor of a cathedral.

i can trace the lines of your palm
transposed onto my own palm.

at a distance
i can see you as a shadow.

the glimpses i get of your day
from when you are able to be online.

there is no distance but the distance we percieve.

we stack our books next to each other.

sometimes we stare at nothing and think
like a cat does.

sometimes i can superimpose your face
on the neighbourhood cats
and i nuzzle them.

one is called Cow
and has a muscular neck,
and perfect—such perfect—
fur standing like a porcupine
and rolling in the dirt.

it’s a lot quieter
to just imagine you here.

i don’t break things
on my own
but my body is less functional.

i watch leaves fall off trees
without you
and i am in art galleries
alone, staring at a painting
until a gallery attendant
wakes me up.

This post was originally written on December 21, 2016 for Latitude 53, while I was their Writer in Residence.