a bird just darted across the night sky.
or was it a bat?
it shrieked briefly as it flapped its wings and cut the air like a blade,
light tight lace splitting.
You can’t contain the sky. The amount of sky that’s in a person will always float to the surface.
Some people walk lifted, barely touching the ground. Here, I am.
There are no street lights here.
I was able to see the stars yesterday evening.
I shuddered. There are so many! So many!
Tiny and dim and faint, but so many, like thick fairy dust cluttering the sky.
They totally emasculate the Ursa Major.
They totally redraw the picture of what we were taught to consider, making an absolute fuzzy mess of the abstract, simplified diagrams of utility.
There are no traffic signs here. Here you have to find your own way.
Just the tired eyes of angels. Blinking. Tired. Dozing off.
On and off.
It’s summer. It’s warm all day and all night. The sun scorches us gently.
The earth and my body are steaming. They are made the same.
Here, in this unlit corner, I can actually distinguish various shades of black.
Dense grey and dark navy blue, and the really dark green of fir needles, and the really
dark brown of fir bark.
And a hue lighter, the basswood leaves and the roses crawling.
Ever upwards on the run down balconies. An escape.
In the darkness, I can hear the crickets.
No barking, just a stealthy cat in heat.
I wish I didn’t have to type this poem on a computer.
Its light obscures the generous darkness of the night sky, with its angel eyes blinking faintly
in the distance.
The screen makes me look down again. Upward, upward cries my soul. I cannot grow horizontally, like fat
I don’t know why they call it Windows. My windows are permeated by the zillion shades of
black and the tinkling of the night sky.
My computer has no windows that open onto anything – only a leak into depthless, bright, colourful places to crash.
And more decrepit forgetfulness than one hundred years of solitude.
It is not even alive.
The neighbour who walks with a crutch greeted us today with a smile, and she played with
the kids for a minute,
then she cried.
She has loved a man for 60 years, and now the man cannot remember. The man is old.
The man is dying. And she cried. And she told us the whole story of how she had loved this man. Married this man.
How she had defied her father for him and how her father had grown to love this man. How they had brought children into the world,
children this kind man loved. And who in turn gave birth to grandchildren.
And now this man asks about his grandchildren and forgets. Forgets they came to visit. Forgets they’ve just left.
I’m glad she has told me this. I am glad she has filled my world with her dying tenderness,
with her memories of a man who was kind for 60 years, and with my memories of her, and I am sorry she’s dying.
Her yearning for new babies to love fills me with her yearning for life.
She wishes for grand-grandchildren,
but young couples always take their time,
and time she hasn’t got.
And I am sorry. Filled with tenderness, and pregnant with life and so full of sorrow,
a sorrow warm and soft as cotton
as cotton wrapping me at my mother’s bosom when I
was a baby.
I am home. My heart swimming in joy and in tears. My womb dilated.
And I am ready to give
birth to the world
until we all
just melt into the earth
And even then, some seed will grow.
I am home.
Here, I am.