a minor try, and other poems
A soft piece, a shard,
the shutting of two eyes to breathe better, a finger
between the plastic sleeves of
an expired curriculum vitae; whispering the art of forgetting
during the ritual of stirring tea.
people-watching and curry-smelling,
sighing and nursing a lip of research between the
teeth of time and smoothing a creased skirt that crumples back,
again and again.
the revolutionary watch
my boyfriend, for my birthday,
bought me a revolutionary watch; a hand-less, mark-less, weight-less vial of water
flowing clock-wise,
that I fit below my wrist, to
dissolve the start and pause and stop; to
nurse each moment; to
pace my movements; to secret-secretly
time your silence,
and like a daily meditation, the waters come full circle,
my moon-face making tide-breath,
faster faster
when we’re warm, and
slower, softer when we’re cold.
*
dinner in the city
I am eating the little people, each one is a dish
thinking, moving, happening as I sit at this table and think about what it must feel
to have a soft, shapeless, forgetful beast picking through your
failings and telling you where to go,
what to do, because the city demands purpose, eases you through its oesophagus,
and gently spits you out as smoke.
Nothing is as tender as a mother, and there is one in this salad bowl,
breaking the silence of its foliage with the
baby, his carriage,
her bowl for gathering stories, his bib in case of a spill, and the entirety of a family
in hiding condensed to a small, dense knot that cries.
*
one hundred degrees, B.C.
What is the stuff of a moment of snow, that
makes fathers break into parks and banks mother their wounds. That lifts people into employment and shapes castles on the street. We’re shut and fighting fire, we’re
nursing, for a moment, a taste of a kingdom without
humans and their monsters; we’re stepping
into a video game with a pause; we’re stopping
for a drink of everything organic; we can’t differentiate who lives here, and who’s en route to the future:
A few children evolve into play, thought, and reflex; and we watch them from the comfort of our age; we shudder as
they strip themselves and embrace every state of water; we curse and
soften ourselves with newspapers.
A few old men evolve too, and
we watch them calcify on the benches, under staircases, beside smouldering fags. We are disapproving of their bravery and their medieval clutches; we’re holding cameras, and we’re capturing the sun,
light as a reminder, a hand of god that gently shakes existence one hundred degrees,
retrieving us,
not them,
from a moment of disbelief.
the shutting of two eyes to breathe better, a finger
between the plastic sleeves of
an expired curriculum vitae; whispering the art of forgetting
during the ritual of stirring tea.
people-watching and curry-smelling,
sighing and nursing a lip of research between the
teeth of time and smoothing a creased skirt that crumples back,
again and again.
the revolutionary watch
my boyfriend, for my birthday,
bought me a revolutionary watch; a hand-less, mark-less, weight-less vial of water
flowing clock-wise,
that I fit below my wrist, to
dissolve the start and pause and stop; to
nurse each moment; to
pace my movements; to secret-secretly
time your silence,
and like a daily meditation, the waters come full circle,
my moon-face making tide-breath,
faster faster
when we’re warm, and
slower, softer when we’re cold.
*
dinner in the city
I am eating the little people, each one is a dish
thinking, moving, happening as I sit at this table and think about what it must feel
to have a soft, shapeless, forgetful beast picking through your
failings and telling you where to go,
what to do, because the city demands purpose, eases you through its oesophagus,
and gently spits you out as smoke.
Nothing is as tender as a mother, and there is one in this salad bowl,
breaking the silence of its foliage with the
baby, his carriage,
her bowl for gathering stories, his bib in case of a spill, and the entirety of a family
in hiding condensed to a small, dense knot that cries.
*
one hundred degrees, B.C.
What is the stuff of a moment of snow, that
makes fathers break into parks and banks mother their wounds. That lifts people into employment and shapes castles on the street. We’re shut and fighting fire, we’re
nursing, for a moment, a taste of a kingdom without
humans and their monsters; we’re stepping
into a video game with a pause; we’re stopping
for a drink of everything organic; we can’t differentiate who lives here, and who’s en route to the future:
A few children evolve into play, thought, and reflex; and we watch them from the comfort of our age; we shudder as
they strip themselves and embrace every state of water; we curse and
soften ourselves with newspapers.
A few old men evolve too, and
we watch them calcify on the benches, under staircases, beside smouldering fags. We are disapproving of their bravery and their medieval clutches; we’re holding cameras, and we’re capturing the sun,
light as a reminder, a hand of god that gently shakes existence one hundred degrees,
retrieving us,
not them,
from a moment of disbelief.