Starbucks has temporarily become my new hang-out. Yes, I'm only here for the free wifi. The strawberries and cream drink I have right now is quite tasty though... Hopefully after tomorrow, Starbucks will see less of me. But I've been saying that for days now. Moving has its challenges. I especially dislike the ones that involve spelling my name over the phone. I should be able to laugh at how predictably bad it goes every time, but still haven't quite gotten to that point. But that's another story. Anyway, as I unpack I come across items that bring back memories. I have folders of poetry, both stuff I've written and collected. Here are a few old ones that I flipped through recently.
****
Summer
-kari thostenson
In certain hours of the slow evening,
she considers her…
She is alone
cooking,
rearranging objects.
She has been alone for some time.
It is not clear how long.
At least weekly she wakes, finding her shape
self-conscious.
Nothing
but the quietness of her own actions:
the muted scenes of showering, then breakfast.
Daily she slips among the crowds, in streets, stores
camouflaged, comfortable.
Here this independence is celebrated,
her solitariness forgotten.
Then, in certain hours of the slow evening,
rush hour begins for some, but not
her.
She walks home, drops her bag, removes her shoes,
and the silence settles in…
She is alone,
cooking,
rearranging objects.
she has been alone for some time now
It is (almost) clear how long.
****
Auroras
-Joanna Klink
It began in a foyer of evenings
The evenings left traces of glass in the trees
A book and a footpath we followed
Under throat-pipes of birds
We moved through a room of leaves
Thin streams of silver buried under our eyes
A field of white clover buried under our eyes
Or a river we stopped at to watch
The wind cross it. Recross it
Room into room you paused
Where once on a stoop we leaned back
Talking late into daylight
The morning trees shook off twilight
Opening and closing our eyes auroras
Beyond groves and flora we followed a path
Dotted with polished brown bottles,
Scoured furrows, a wood emptied of trees
It was enough to hollow us out
The evenings left grasses half-wild at our feet
Branches with spaces for winds
The earth changes
The way we speak to each other has changed
As for a long while we stood in a hall full of exits
Listening for a landscape beyond us
The evenings left traces of glass in the trees
A book and a footpath we followed
Under throat-pipes of birds
We moved through a room of leaves
Thin streams of silver buried under our eyes
A field of white clover buried under our eyes
Or a river we stopped at to watch
The wind cross it. Recross it
Room into room you paused
Where once on a stoop we leaned back
Talking late into daylight
The morning trees shook off twilight
Opening and closing our eyes auroras
Beyond groves and flora we followed a path
Dotted with polished brown bottles,
Scoured furrows, a wood emptied of trees
It was enough to hollow us out
The evenings left grasses half-wild at our feet
Branches with spaces for winds
The earth changes
The way we speak to each other has changed
As for a long while we stood in a hall full of exits
Listening for a landscape beyond us
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