over the tomato vomit in the hallway, toward
a ghost town, say Dummer, Saskatchewan,
with a possible overnight in Forget. First, find
the door, then your marquee. Grab the last cinnamon bun
to dull the razor blade of your tongue. The clink clock
of your hot buttons tumbling in the dryer. Clasp hook and
sky, untangle tufts of hint caught in your slipper. Count aloud
the names of fish – tuna, thread ell, forssk. The Ikea
in your mind may yet have an exit. Stare past the Velcro
voices, the selvages you’ve managed to unravel.
There is no sin in the stumble to surrender. Remember: falling
feels like the dog’s muffle between the sofa cushions, and
tonight, the last flush is your amen.
(An older piece that I just reworked and lengthened.)
4 comments:
Vivid impression of a very tired mind in the wee hours. I especially like "Grab the last cinnamon bun…The clink…" And "The Ikea of your mind may yet have an exit" --yes, yes.
I'd leave off the first "the" in line 2, for the sake of rhythm.
I wondered about "selvages" in the 4th-last line. Selvages are the woven edges on the bolt of fabric that are made to not unravel-- is this what you meant here?
Oh good because that's what I was going for. Yes, I had woven edges in mind, and I like the way selvages sounds like selves and salvage. I was hoping to find an adjective to precede it.
I also like the 'cinnamon bun..'because it helped ground me in your house, in your poem, knowing the journey wasn't going to bring me physically far. Interesting piece.
The buttons in the dryer and the clasp hook gave me the feeling (which I liked) that there was a chance that the housewife might indeed at least wander outdoors with another layer on...
I didn't understand the use of the words "marquee" and "dog's muffle". Really like "no sin in the stumble to surrender."
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