the heart of the matter
I.
write more, you said
with a look in your eyes: earnest
and sweet, and maybe you mean it
my friends are great poets, they’ve
mastered the trick of braiding words
into curious shapes
an artichoke
a cello
a ladle
words to peel apart and drag your teeth across
until you reach the heart of the matter
or smooth your hand along the curve
and draw forth a different sort of
tune — or maybe when
you’re swimming in a sea of sadness,
grasp your handmade utensil
fill it brimful
and see if it helps stop the sinking.
II.
I’d forgotten how to read poetry
til I found a book of verse given by
an old flame, or was it a hopeful one (the
lines blur, over years, much like this piece)
and the ease with which I slipped
into worn-out shoes, those old world-views…
here was a rekindling
see,
I spend a lot of time spooning my friends
when we sleep we absorb each others’ secrets
our bodies curl around warm presence
and other scents, we settle down, we heal
and learn the difference between
the way someone frames the great wide world
and the way they form your whole world
the west coast stole my heart but it’s
Of Montreal who scored its soundtrack:
to me you’re just some faggy girl
and I need a lover with soul power.
III.
we spend so much time thinking
the best part of life is
anticipation
but for neurotics the real pleasure lies
in revision
building a nest of flashing untruths
to impress the next bird
or, more kindly: to make sense of things.
joan didion reminds us to tell ourselves
stories in order to live
a hard task when you’re writing against
the grain of what you feel is true.
I am waiting for the slow unfurling
that brings old words to new life.
