This month has been peppered with fatigue. I am not a poet (though if I could choose to be anything in another life I would be either a poet or a dancer.) I am not even a writer (though having a blog allows me to pretend to be one once a month). And I probably won’t even finish this blog (because right now after 14 hours of sleep I feel I could sleep another 14).
So this is all I got.
Fatigue (a crappy poem)
I’m wearing a snowsuit in July sun.
You talk, I try to respond
To what you said,
about your aunt
about your job
your garden's fledging bean stalks
But despite effort beyond effort,
my mind turns away-
from our time together
from the pastries on our plates
And returns to the polyester,
that is melting into my skin.
Few people know Olive is the poet in the family, quiet famed in canine circles. A regular master of prose. Snout facing out the east windows, she contemplates the birds, the changing leaves, the unknown dog taking a dump on the sidewalk.
But you can’t hear it. Only I can hear it. Call it a woman and her pup ESP.
Olive isn’t your regular ink slinger. She does not care to make permanent her rhymes. She writes her poetry in subtle nods and glances. With her head in the swoop of my back, she presses in deeply, as though offering a healing incantation--to relieve the pain, to supply the energy. She might repeat her little poem for hours or days as I lay curled in bed, on the couch, in a chair. Her patience is part of the performance. She writes her poems in the excited spins she twirls when I lace up my shoes for a walk, ready to celebrate and trod on our small clumps of earth. She writes her poems on the grass she rolls in, body content
Two drinks in we sometimes attempt to recite her poems to each other. We attempt to put into human words her well-nuanced pup dialect only to find that we bastardized and made humorous the whole endeavor.