The one year anniversary of my concussion, I find myself scurrying after a cat in heat, wearing the wrongly slippery socks, feet the wrong angle, catapulted the full length of my front stairs.
Not concussed, or even bruised, really, somehow (how??) - but certainly shaken, and sore enough to remember and look up the date (via the poem log that Ellen and I have locked away for all of last April, a faithful literary record of events). And sure enough...now we have April 23, a day for serious falls. Will I always have these cycles?
*
A letter arrives with Bolivian postmark, and in it a flower plucked from the shores of Lake Titicaca, worn in a buttonhole, dried, mailed.
Tonight I went to a literary event, the first poetry reading I've been to in a long, long time. It's a Big Night and there is Food and Video Art and an Interactive Part and Jonathan Skinner and Florine Melnyk and my mom and I sat behind a counter and sold back issues of Ecopoetics, and Jonathan read from this beautiful series of his called Warblers.
Right now, the warblers are sweeping northwards, some all the way from South America to our Buffalo doorsteps.
*
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment