Sunday Poems XXIX

Earlier I was looking at a little book printed by a Swedish furniture company. The book depicted a confused person with a pointy nose beside their eyes trying to assemble a piece of furniture while looing at exactly the same book that i was looking at. Meta. This person was holding a hammer in their other hand, which possibly explains the confusion, because assembling that particular piece of furniture doesn’t require a hammer.

My own story of helping my roommate to assemble the furniture was pretty much as sad though, and I’m happy it’s behind us. I tweeting to the Swedish furniture company’s Canadian branch a video of a newly assembled chair wobbling like the rocking chair it wasn’t advertised as, and they kindly informed me that they couldn’t view the video and if i would send a copy of the reciept maybe they could help. But I can’t tell how that would help. Maybe we can bundle it up and glue it to the bottom of the shorter leg.

Sunday stings. You got a whole night’s sleep. It had been a while. But in the morning, a window had been left open and you reach over to your cold bedside table. Your cold water bottle touches your cold lips and the cold liquid goes inside you and makes its way to your still warm stomach which feels a little bit colder afterwards. You take a shower. It’s warm, but a little unsure. It fulfills your fears by turning hot for a moment, long enough to sting the back of your neck. You shelter against the wall and the water turns cold, like everything else. Maybe it’s not the day to be warm. Below is a poem. I’m here if you would like to chat. Have a great week everyone.


basalt

your hair on the floor
your back to the sky
your life for the moon

your senses for the sky
your senses for the skin
your skin to the words

the words to your heart
your brain to the ground
your feet to the wall

in love with gravity
for a moment, not alone
you and me and everyone

in this commercial setting
drinking soup
and it’s 3pm

you should have been at work an hour ago
we’re going over to your place for lunch
it’s too late for lunch.

when do we call it dinner

you haven’t bathed in days

you simplify with your skin
you grow from your tongue

tastebloods swollen to the size of beach balls

the sky the colour of your skin

your skin the colour of your blood

from a different cliffside it could have been beautiful.


Originally published April 24, 2016.

Theodore Fox is a poet living on Treaty Six land in Canada.
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