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.
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