(no subject)
Recently I've been so busy. And I know I've been doing it as a way of skimming the surface of things. And I know that it had to be that way, at least for a while. But I'm just finishing the first poem I've been proud of writing in almost a year, and I'm sitting with a little orange cat on my shoulder, and I feel that sweet melancholy washing back over me, and I'm remembering how much I missed it. Right now it seems solace enough that I'll have these two things for years and years... Sadie is getting calmer by the day, and turning into the perfect little companion, and my writing is actually rooted in something again, and I've realized over the past few days that I've already amassed so many extraordinary memories, that just sitting here with Sadie and figuring out how to put them into words could be enough. That could be enough.
I'm putting the poem behind the cut. I don't know why, really, but if you feel like helping me edit, I'm always appreciative.
Cleaning the Attic
If all our scenes seem wistful now
It’s only for the years of erosion
Whittling sadly at the sharp edges
Of memory, leaving fainter wisps
of sawdust to hang in the air
And catch in our throats from time to time.
The soft shmutz covers everything:
the china, candle sticks, the glass
that catches hazy flits of you,
And I know it’s all you can manage
Not to lick your thumb and reach
Through it and time to clean my cheek.
***
That guilt you made a loving part
Of every day, spread thick and sweet
Like raspberry jam on morning’s toast
To hide its seeds between our teeth
So we might pick at them all day
And remember, is merited now.
O you of suffering incommensurate
To your small vices, are lost to us
For days on end. Remembered at convenience.
***
The orange cat who was your only
Confederate in those final years,
Who made you think these halls were home
Enough a place to wait it out,
Who heard or did not hear your voice
Grumping from the next room over,
Who went about his grooming regardless
Of whether you loved him right that day,
is sneezing sharply through the dust.
I'm putting the poem behind the cut. I don't know why, really, but if you feel like helping me edit, I'm always appreciative.
Cleaning the Attic
If all our scenes seem wistful now
It’s only for the years of erosion
Whittling sadly at the sharp edges
Of memory, leaving fainter wisps
of sawdust to hang in the air
And catch in our throats from time to time.
The soft shmutz covers everything:
the china, candle sticks, the glass
that catches hazy flits of you,
And I know it’s all you can manage
Not to lick your thumb and reach
Through it and time to clean my cheek.
***
That guilt you made a loving part
Of every day, spread thick and sweet
Like raspberry jam on morning’s toast
To hide its seeds between our teeth
So we might pick at them all day
And remember, is merited now.
O you of suffering incommensurate
To your small vices, are lost to us
For days on end. Remembered at convenience.
***
The orange cat who was your only
Confederate in those final years,
Who made you think these halls were home
Enough a place to wait it out,
Who heard or did not hear your voice
Grumping from the next room over,
Who went about his grooming regardless
Of whether you loved him right that day,
is sneezing sharply through the dust.