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lost and found at tiny thing
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i wrote this for something else - ages ago
I have no home in the world. Or rather I have not ONE home in the world. My network is thinly spread, flimsy even. This was not my intention but this is how it is.
I am interested in memories and surfaces. Susan Stewart says that "memory is a measuring device, a ruler of narratives". Amy Bloom says that "everyone has two memories. The one you can tell and the one that is stuck to the underside of that, the dark, tarry smear of what happened." I say, I am an archivist of the coffee stains, the smell of smoke, the ringing in your ear but also the sms message that made us into who we were and the chat transcript that destroyed everything.
I am collecting the scraps of the where and the how. This is what my garden is build out of. This is how it grew and grows.
want
where the wild things are
fame
want
want
etsy 1 2 3
poem on the day of the spring equinox
the winter enters her
so silent, it
slants in and
squats her; the
thin time of Lent
her skin's a curtain between cold and cold
naked, she fills up with the city snow
and frozen trash; she's a container
for rain-pocked slush and the brown
mash at the gutter's edge; the cold
moulds her, bleak in the park
there is no prince, no melting
kiss; she simply
endures
the dark months
of the occupation, the aching embrace
- like a root
till March loosens her
then there's a white
insurrection
of crocuses, each one blooms
close and full as an egg; how
their purity hurts
she must learn to open her yellow heart
Michele Roberts
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