Unlike my friend
who polishes her stories
so they shine
at cocktail parties,
I have daily flecks of gold
free at water’s edge.
Still timid,
the questions hide,
when what I want to ask is:
what have you summoned lately?
what are your dreams conjuring
onto your day-to-day canvas?
And talking of the weather
as an act of social kindness,
curiousity longs to ask:
what have you heard in the cold?
what tales has water spoken?
I saw myself,
a sideways glimpse,
sneaking past my fear
to find someone else
to do my work.
Not just the obvious aversions
but also the care of my fiefdom;
baker, lover, monk
lined up for pay.
The glance forward
to a bloated self
watching a coach
on my treadmill.
There is a howl
that echoes in a ragged hole
where I rarely hear
the wail of my own need,
anger pulsing aimlessly.
All these stories of love
denied, light
covered, joy
squelched in the mud of propriety.
Salt from unshed tears
lining my rancour,
a chemistry of resentment
cracking the base
of all these pedestals
tumbling.
I have my proofs of hurt,
red banners fading to white,
carried for the oft-imagined day
of reckoning and truce.
But as light works its decay
on the pigment of my stories,
even white banners are weakened,
absorbed in the tremors
of a silent moan escaping,
a bitter wind astringent,
wiping me empty.
Here where all is lost,
the breeze has more space
for bumping,
dangled shards of my heart
touching like chimes.
Just wanted to say thanks to Michael Brown for his great book, which I’ve experienced as very alive and enlivening.