The Relationship With Water

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I ran the cool water,
placed my hand on the faucet
for relief in that room,

but my heat pushed up in a sudden flush,
spread through the air
from my wrist
in a cloud
that overtook my torso.

With the water-chilled pipe
roaring against my skin,
I gripped the counter
and was nearly consumed.

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Smoke and Rainwater

You are a far thought,
a dim afternoon on a wet day
twenty years ago from behind a glass —
I listen to the old pock of your gently thumped glass
against chipped laminate and a local paper —
a comfortable, melancholic mood
that drops down
when I smell smoke and rainwater.

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More Than a Temporary Traveller

You worry that you are old
in your blind little spot of dark.
You worry that
no one would have you
even though you are already had.
You lie, eyes open to the night
as though you were ill,
an illness, a thing.
This will be it, you think.
You will spend nights awake,
ears buzzing into the silence,
and other nights asleep without memory,
and then there will be no nights.
There is no pattern to navigate,
no migration to trace the why and how.
You will be older still,
and older.
To be younger and more wanted
would only mean more would have you,
and even then,
when your thighs were tight
and days and nights were long affairs,
you worried that you were old
in your blind little spot of dark.
You knew the truth,
that no one would have you, not once,
that no one would touch you ever, not truly,
not in a way that defied the body,
denied the body,
dove beyond it to prove
you were, indeed,
more than a temporary traveller.

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Days With No Hope In Them

the mailman came during my bath

There are days with no hope in them.
The sun sits beyond the treeshade
beyond the window,
the cars hum beyond the grass
beyond the outer wall,
there are feet somewhere scrambling
through leaves and gravel,
but you are far away.

I spiral through the hall,
along the stairs.
I sit at the foot of the bed
and pull on socks,
as though I might go somewhere.
I feed the cats bits of cheese
and run a bath
so I can hear the water
whistle far through pipes
down the line.

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Time In a Vacuum

my bed

I was a child in the morning
with spring air shifting
in waves through windows
over the bed,
across the sheets,
and between toes which I spread
to see the sun red
through the webbing between them.
An ironed pillowcase my mother's touch,
the pillow loud against my ear,
the salad scent of mown grass
sprang from a neighbour's lawn
to tell me to eat breakfast,
and that moment became a vacuum tube,
bottled itself into a pocket of my brain,
where we find ourselves now,
looking.

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