A poem for Sunday

-

 "So what are my stories?" 

 

Stories in song, in cotton, in prose.

Been cutting (slicing) fabric for stars, their alignments altered.

Merged into one, clouds and solids, crazy mix of wild

Tilda prints and other decorative ideas

dwelling silently in a tote for weeks, months, maybe years to come.

(Strum guitar strum, "Ricetones" by Subaqwa)


An epub made, reading, read.

Typos caught, maybe missed, this novel looking as though already

published, but merely ticking away in my phone.

Did novelists dream of such shenanigans

in 1892, in 1904, in 2003?

Did I dream of this arrangement

when writing my first novel

or my first book 

(which came long before the fiction)?

Captured words and deeds

("Ricetones" fades back in, plenty of reverb)

held in their own kind of flash drive totes,

pretty damn small compared to where the EPP lives.

 

(Then sneakily, as though it's not there

arrives the music....)

"This Mountain Is Closed"

by Subaqwa

a 90s indies band

we listened to in England.

We being my other half,

maybe the kids,

who aren't kids now in 2024.

No longer do I crank it to 11

nor do I use headphones

or earbuds

but the notes remain

as inspiration

distraction

thrill

and 

joy.

Leading me into faraway galaxies and fabric shops

on the cusps of distant universes.

Guiding me into realms

safely

gently

as though a mother.

As though there's no other way for me to

write

sew

conjure the muse


(Except it's the muse

leading me so tenderly

like a father

a sister

a partner

forever).


Thanks for reading this poem!

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