No going back now the small vortex
inhales me
I am becoming something new
without the old habits
my back is learning to crank
the vertebrae
upright, now, upright the girl whispers
soft nothings
women talking to me laid out
on kitchen floors
papaya
in Ontario is something of a joke
winter teeth biting the flesh of the Caribbean
dark
smooth nights with no apparent bedtime
the arch of me
roams
the rooms echoing space
lots of space to think
breathe
breakfast with brown faces/obsess about words
feeling pulled taut like skin on teeth and passion
old inclinations beckon
but I am careful to let my meanderings linger
look a little
lick the thing before I sink my fangs into it
blood is too precious to be flung
pouring from necklines like sweat
I remind my palms to remain facedown
steady
fingers extended/but watchful
time is the reason we are not dead
so I complain less
about the hours
frolic in the grace of full days
flattened for my falling
there is no going back from here
unless someone with demons like mine
cross my path
black kitten threatening happy
how will I know how to walk
thin calves extended
old woman
I am my grandmother
veined and shaking
dark skin shading down
to a more acceptable brown
when she died
she was nothing like I remembered
and when the house creaked
empty
days later
I dreamt that I would never dream again
no image has since then
crossed my slumber
slumbering is hard
but the nights have been kind here
just East of Bloor
the floors sneak small noises
and I eat the sturdy note of a banana at three a.am.
sing to myself for company
suffer the phonecalls
infrequent
the text of this task unsure
small lurches place me forward of myself
behind me
the windows glare inviting
the cold outside an epiphany
a reminder
that today
I am pressing onward in season
Posted by staceyann at November 7, 2007 12:25 PM