After reading Meridian by Kathleen Jesme
Paper is easier to find (back of a sales slip, the blank end sheet
in the book itself ) than a pen. The absence
of a pen,
the lost thought. My homage to this lean volume ─
how could it have been read (without response)?
How to explain: I don’t love you, I love this. (And what is an explanation
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxgood for anyway?)
I tell my grandson (who asks: Is that a poem you are writing?): I
am now married
to poetry. I cannot deny it. (Yes, married, like maman and papa.)
We argue and cling,
separate and crouch,
betray and mend,
before this temple of our own making. He climbs trees
while I swallow these poems whole. And admit (to my grandson, to myself)
is an all or nothing venture.
Without it I would die,
just like growing is all this boy can do
while I prepare my garden
and he says, I wrote a poem once
to comfort me.