*
How many weeks from now: forty-eight years old. Party ‘till
I break a hip.
Where we live on the continent. One remains, most often,
where things are most familiar.
What my archive, accumulates. I pack boxes and folders for
couriers to collect, sent forth into Calgary. All the way to the foothills.
Correspondence, notebooks, notebooks, postcards.
Manuscripts. All apology.
Cole Swensen, On
Walking On (2017): “If you walk in complete silence, other beings are not
forced // to rearrange themselves into unrecognizable things.”
Ottawa Valley cold. Ontario cold. Cold anywhere. An approaching
Arctic air mass.
What one might wish to unfold.
*
Retweet Kaveh Akbar. Retweet Erin Wunker. Retweet Jane
Eaton Hamilton. Retweet Eve L. Ewing. Retweet Natalee Caple. Retweet Hazel
Millar. Retweet Natalie Eilbert. Retweet Metatron Press. Retweet Zoe Whittall. Retweet
Amal El-Mohtar. Retweet Astro Poets. Retweet Christine McNair, the rare time
she does tweet. We want significance, relevance. We wish to engage. We want an
end to hostilities. We want an end to the dark ends of silence. To remember why
we love, why we love poems, why we love writing. To return to that joy of
creation, community. Connection.
I want to feel the love I want to love the poems I want the
poems that sing and breathe and rage I want the giving and not the taking.
Return to small. Attempt, once more, to discover. What we
came here to do. Revisit the idea. Revitalize. Sketch out. Absorb. Why we write
in the first place.
Polyvocality is not cacophony. Is not a threat. A thread. Why
can’t we listen.
To no longer feel exhausted.
Sometimes doing nothing and doing something exist concurrently,
in a single gesture.
*
Today in history.
When I repeat a story. Clickbait.
The days my mother had to force me out. “I don’t want to
see you until ____.” A pain upon cheeks as we tore through the snow. Such cold.
Wood smoke from the wood furnace up the chimney rolling down to the ground outside
to swirl tumbleweed slow across yard and disperse.
“If you saw a bullet hit a bird — and he told you he wasn’t
shot — you might weep at his courtesy...” – Emily Dickinson
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