Do you remember how often I used to dream of searching through houses not our own for a bathroom? I pushed in door after door, following what I thought was an audible plinking. And no, it wasn't dark. Or at least, not yet. In some rooms, bedclothes were mounded on sleeping forms. In others, the shape of a crackling fire. Long wooden tables with woven runners, salt shakers and stone bowls of a flecked blue shade reminding me of river water. Is this about the body holding in, until it can no longer? When it does, it wants to excuse itself or keep others at bay. A last door always opens upon a view of fields, or a hill. Light hovers. Wild grass, waist-high, makes another room through which a body could find its way.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
