lately
my mind is a dreamy soup
Yours, polished rosin.
I stand grey as a doorway
To embody sleep
my chance to mishear
when you whisper a name
could be mine,
could be anyone’s.
and I stand grey as a doorway.
a fear.
A question mark
hidden in vowels
They ring truer than chimes
fragile and funny
like Braille on a wooden door
Scared, to trace silver names
I cower, dogmatic
leak a silent tear,
It winks like a small cut star
and fades to grey in the doorway
You should paste it in a yearbook,
printed.
Defined in curvature yet cornered like algebra.
Fractions were easiest to swallow,
but the point of a decimal
is to make some kind of sense (¢),
so divide yourself by 2, and get me
F
Fiercely Tender: The Simple Complex World of Michael Ondaatje’s Novels
Shortly afterwards in that novel we encounter a celebration of the body, grime and all, unimpeded by this abstraction called mind. While writing the body might seem not altogether unusual, my point is that you cannot simply assume its naturalness. Language, even fictional language, is so much of a mentally...
