Sunday Poems XX

Going into the last week of my position as Writer in Residence I’m feeling very nervous about things that I wanted to do, that weren’t finished, that I could have done better, that turned out well, that turned out better than I expected. Nerves are strange parts of ourselves. Anxiety is a strange sort of self-love. I will do some reflection, for you dear reader, and also for myself. The feeling of being read is like what a cloud feels about moving through the sky, I would imagine.

Last night I read at the launch for Undercover Books’s Winter Catalogue. It didn’t feel much like winter today, but yesterday did. The seasons have been changing day to day. I urge you to visit Undercover Books at their home in The Drawing Room to peruse a fantastic selection of material from local writers, artists, and bookmakers.

Sundays can be spent by ourselves, or with our friends. Or family. You open a bottle of mineral water. Your lips have been dry lately. You want to hydrate yourself. You feel bad about the mineral water habit, but it feels so good on the tongue. You don’t indulge very often. It’s bottled locally and mineralized. Your friend has a book with recipes to duplicate the salt contents of various commercial brands of mineral waters. You can order the ingredients online. Another friend built a carbonator. You feel nervous about it, but they offered to help build you one too. You could indulge. Below is a poem. As always, I’m here if you need me.


singing at night

afterwards
a broom pushed
across the floor
with the weight of my body
leaning forward
it’s just like
walking.

consonants
spell out
a name

we whisper through
the vowels.

we made from nothing else
what we came here to make

ah, waiting just for the trees
to sound like maracas.

you used to be in a band
and now you work in a shop
and drink wine every weekend
also every other day.

you have books about it
and you’re working on your own.

“i’m writing a book about wine,”
you say and i tell you i’m excited.

you pause for a moment, then
“yeah, me too.”

“you’ve been writing for such a long time”
you smile and i look at you.

we spend alot of time looking at each other.

you remind me of a fern
sstretching over roots
on a particular path
overlooking the discovery passage.

the guidebooks suggest
six hours for that hike.

the places we are
and where i would like us to be.


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