The Garden State

This old house is dying
Like the grandmother I never had:
Content that I’ve turned out okay,
Her work is over
And she doesn’t mind the idea of finally drifting away,
Though not before I visit a few times
To show her how I’ve been since flying.
She’s a little different each time I come back:
Still there, but her eyes have dimmed a little.
Now, her hands that once rolled cookies with such confidence
Can barely support the plastic ward-issued knife;
Her voice that once carried the choir with her faith
Comes now with just sparse monosyllables;
Her ears that could pick me out of a screaming schoolyard
Can now hardly note my stuttering, tumbling words
From beside the starched, bleached pillow.
She’s slowly stopping,
Like an old steam engine that’s fought its way
Through the mountains to the sandy finish line of the Pacific,
Coming to rest and shutting down because there’s nowhere further to go
And because she’s earned the damn vacation.
She’s chugging her last,
And as much as it breaks my heart,
Seeing her fade,
It’s comforting to know that she’s done all she had to:
She taught my hands to give comfort;
She taught my voice to carry my heart;
She taught my ears to know love;
And just before her tongue stopped and her right lung gave out,
She taught my heart that
“The only way to know what to look for
Is to learn what’s missing.”
Now, she just lies there with a smile
On her old, worn face,
Right up until the white linens covering her breasts
Stop following the rise and fall of the ocean swells.

And as we pull the blinds down,
Gently flip the switch, close the car doors,
It’s comforting to know that the pain in my chest
And the sting in my eyes
Is just my home
Letting me know what I can now go out and look for.

Sunday Post

"In the archipelago of coffee, each man is an island. The woman are - who knows where - withdrawn but not quite vanished, like god at the end of the nineteenth century. Between your figure and the ground there is a tissue of airless space about the thickness of a piece of paper, in which all double helices untwine, adieu my little corkscrew, and swim off stage at the speed of light. Warnings, some visible, are posted at each junction. The floor may be slippery, the eyes in the mirror may be holes, the cashier may be unfamiliar with your gravity, the money may be avian. But the coffee is real and powers the economy."

-Don McKay, "Nocturne MacDonald-Cartier Freeway"

New record. I have managed to achieve a hangover without actually drinking any alcohol. Midnight coffee + three hours of sleep. Awesome.

But finally I've returned myself to civilized society. I've gotten home, had a shower, stuffed some normal food in my belly, and I'm finally able to keep my eyes open for longer than five seconds at a time. Progress, I tells ya.

Anyway, here's yer post. Once again, no work until 2 so I'm rollin' nice and leisurely this morning (although said quasi-hangover is definitely a factor in my pacing). Job's still going good - I got to handle some actual baking yesterday cause half the crew went on break and the other co-worker, Kate, found herself spelunking through the nether regions of the freezer looking for creampuffs. Good times, good times. New schedule up today as well, so I'll hopefully have a pair of days off in a row again next week and I'll be hauling my ass back to Chilliwack to gather the last of my belongings I actually still want, and then I'll be moving into my hopefully long-term house. Life is good :)

Have a good week!

Salt Spring

I don't know.

I don't know
what is going through your head
as you arch your back like a wave,
shoulderblades pushing against my chest
like so much water heaving itself at the shore.

I don't know
what is going through your head
as you lay finally still,
my kisses trickling down your back
towards my fingers (still smelling of you
as the soles of my shoes smell of
freshly rained-upon earth).

All I know is this:
we are just two people,
(I - lonely;
You - today a friend, tomorrow a vacancy)
my hand is on your belly,
and I can't ignore how your hips
are grinding against mine like a mill
pulled by the breath of God Himself.

Oh God.

This woman is too fantastic. Hello writing/english minor after I'm finished the BMus.