23 Feb Olivia Wood
Posted at 21:57h
in Poetry
LOT
In keeping the body private that morning,
Her hand sucking between the saucer and the cup—
Leisure did not occur it had been acquired,
I am not leisure in second person.
The red of the red work, she will be alone in this
For a month at least. The way out makes me
Angrier than I can imagine,
Than you could. Repetition quiets, binds,
Repetition educates and distills, mutes me, I desire it
Do you remember desire? How do I write
Hanging for three days then
Hold forgiveness? Forget dexterity, my lot,
my lot swinging down lifeless
my lot foraging through along swan island without me
And I here determining gifts, fashioning girdles,
Noteless, divining, without eyes or fins
The legs packed in hard with earth, our legend leaking on
Ahead without us.
Olivia Wood was born in Portland, Maine and now lives in Montreal. Metatron published her debut, A Work No One Told You About.
