Last evening I:
sat for a while on the couch with B who lay on the pillow I:
held on my lap. He lay still while I:
examined his ear and hair and had really nothing to say (today I:
vacuumed). After this I:
roused myself and walked through a squall to the house in the public garden where I:
met K. We were there for the favorite poet. She was taking place in a wonderful place, a glass house with a glass roof festooned with glass flowers. Through the glass wall I:
could see a real bird perched on a branch of a glass tree and through the ceiling I:
could see the sky change from light gray to a darker gray that looked important above the orange I:
think they were poppies. It was glorious but I:
wasn’t overtaken as I:
wished I:
was. Before each intricate poem, the poet told a long story and I:
enjoyed everything. But afterwards, after too quick of a goodbye to K, I:
went walking quickly back through the dark park. Past the fountain, around the arena I:
found myself muttering about my hunger I:
had missed dinner I:
’m hungry I:
complained. Which point I:
reminded myself, “self, slow down” and “notice the night,” which was lovely and close, the old campus a pleasure to walk in in my nice brown pea coat and fleece lined boots. But here again I:
was unable to surrender. I:
was too trying to drown. By then I:
was home and still uncomfortable I:
tried eating only a little but that was a lot compared to the nothing I:
’d vowed.
Kary Wayson is the author of American Husband (2009, OSU Press) and Via Maria Materi (forthcoming in 2019, Burnside Review Press). She lives and works in Seattle.