Wednesday September 6, 2017
Yours Is This
You waited for me to let you learn
slow like a crocus or a grandmother
Slow like I’ve come to know is true
Fast used to whisper to me from under
the bed taunting that I could never
get to where I wanted without moving
Now I’m wiser or something and I don’t
prize the fast I don’t look on those
bunnies and say
I wish for that life
Sunday July 16, 2017
the Artist’s Way
Sarah won’t let me walk under the ladder.
She stops the street with her
I don’t care about anything like
She doesn’t need any more bad luck these days.
We don’t worry about stepping on cracks.
Our mothers’ backs are much too strong for that.
On the street we move into the wind slowly.
I have to remember to snail down to enjoy it.
My feet are always trying to take me somewhere quickly.
They might be showing off their stride.
I could stop more to take in all the alley mattresses left behind.
I could snap a photograph to keep a memory like that.
Sarah believes in a mustard yellow cozy that one day, if nothing else, I hope she gets in spades.
Sarah doesn’t ask for much.
But she deserves all the kitchen mugs on their tiny hooks.
And a little peace.
Tuesday March 11, 2014
the to.night street box
We are more beautiful when we’re writing
When our ink is flowing
When we aren’t thinking about what we need from the grocery store
Or spilling chilli oil on the leg of our favourite black pants
(How can black get blacker with a stain?)
We are more alive when we’re moving
Fluid and fast
Slow and steady
Our bodies know what’s right and what’s off
“Is the apple cider in the fridge off?”
We try to tell our futures in the free evening newspaper
We try to read the stars
Like palms we know and love
Like hands we hold when the cold comes back