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.
Some pretence is authentic
in a show of windy flowers.
But not with friends, in a shared fog
my friend Charlotte reminded me
of the concentrated spread,
guidance in the shade - a reprieve
- the thin veil,
sometimes so face tight
choking temples.
"Hold on for October"
Cohen's Light asks for Cracks.
Charlotte says,
“They are here our loved ones.”
All last week
Max yelled "Great Grandma
Great Grandma"
as i upped my dose
he clapped "Great
Grandma."
My friend Claire asked Max what was said?
Max with one word
held his autistic gaze on her,
"poetry"
a question? a message? a request?
Claire went on to read to him.
She said he had a hand on the book
of Melancholia.
Her recitation behind the spring sun chant
"Great Grandma, Great
Grandma"
Jean loosened in light
renunciation of words
lifted
i return to poetry.
i write now on my white couch
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.
Abated he returns to sound
another song.
His poetry so different from mine.
Joy in connecting hands, in spins
in Rhythm "di oi di oi di oi di oi di."
If it were made accessible to them,
The New York Times
would call his work:
"Moving and Provocative”
“Penetrating”
He Chants
"Show Mummy your worksheets!"
12/12 correct!
Borderline
Dolphin
With my little eye
i hear
i write poetry.
And October begins
with a gift
bathed in Black Sun
gratitude
to Max’s Great Grandma
