March 2017 – Reading at Thunder and Lightning Pub in Sackville , NB
I got strung out
Like laundry whipped and tangled
By a strong wind
I got wrung out
twisted and worn
Like clothes in an old washer
I was wiped out
By a stinking kitchen cloth
Smelling like mold
I wanted to mellow out
Like butter on a counter
I needed to rest
Like a roast right out of the oven
I sat and steeped, like a good cup of tea
My pen dunking into fresh thoughts
Warm water and sugar make tiny eggs of yeast come to life.
Just as words and poetry make my spirits rise.
Falling leaves sound like
Small footsteps behind me,
Ghosts in the cathedral of trees.
An oriental carpet
Lies before me,
Incense of sweet bonfires
In this sanctuary of death.
People’s lives lie
Decorated with fake flowers.
Their stories told in haiku
Chiseled in stone.
A ceramic bowl, cream coloured and cracked
Hip bones rising from white flesh
Delicate handles circling the empty womb.
Dimpled, empty vessel
It is a still pool that once whispered life
Gurgled with bubbles, babies and blood,
Now no signs of the cycles of pain, hard labour.
Sown seeds swelling
Her shroud was my raw silk gown
Her head thrown back as if in throes of ecstasy
Eyebrows lifted as if about to speak.
Cold, still, removed
A curve of a rib emerges from the dune of the bed
I will brush the dust off the bleached bone
And reveal the story of her life,
Porous, shifting, mythology.