i have it in my face
Kristiva's Black Sun.
It smouldered in June, July.
In August breaking through to pit my heart,
to centre skew September,
to blow away any gift of spring,
if there was any to begin?
Some pretence is authentic
in a show of windy flowers.
But not with friends.
My friend Charlotte reminded me
of the concentrated spread,
guidance in the shade, a reprieve
- the thin veil -
sometimes so face tight
in temples. Cohen’s light
Asking for cracks
"Hold on for October"
Charlotte said,
“They are here our loved ones.”
All last week
Max yelled "Great Grandma, Great
Grandma"
as i upped my dose
he clapped "Great
Grandma” in joy.
My friend Claire asked Max what is said?
Max with one word
held his autistic gaze on her,
"poetry"
- a question? a message? a request? -
She said he had a hand on the book
of Melancholia.
Claire went on to read to him.
Her recitation behind the spring sun chant
"Great Grandma, Great
Grandma."
I think of Jean in his light
lifted
i return to poetry.
It’s been a long time.
And I don’t care if it’s bad.
It feels good.
i write now on my white couch,
door open, a black moth
flies into the house.
i am struck by its liveliness.
A dance above Max’s song.
He stops, the moth stills.
meeting my eyes, Max commands,
"Show mummy your worksheets!"
12/12 correct!
Who sang?
Tick.
20/20 correct!
What Animal at sea?
Tick.
7/7 correct!
i spy ---------------
tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick.
"Show Mummy your worksheets!”
He chants
"Show Mummy your worksheets!"
Borderline
Dolphin
With my little eye
i hear
Great Grandma, Great
Grandma
i write
Black sun borrowed and bathed
October begins
