Sue Goyette. Penelope (excerpt)


I wake without a name. There are no questions
or maelstrom of replies. I apply myself dutifully

to the quandary. The leaves I’ve sewn in place have twisted
their torn selves off the trees and are past ragged,

past being past, and dissolving. My dreams are in canning jars
bright fruit peeled but browning in night’s cellar. This new habitat

is harshest on my voice, offering little to nothing of flavour.
I try the bird’s trick of running lightly across my days, forcing

my footsteps to resemble rainfall but the life crammed beneath the hours
stays there. My empty jewel box is just another small casket. 

Sue Goyette

Texte publié dans le No 35. Encrages et recollages

Excerpt from Penelope, First Person (Gaspereau Press, 2017)
Translated and reproduced with the author’s permission

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