infertile
I’m thinking of you (again) in deep
time
retracing the newfound cloud particles &
ocean
echoes through our many
incarnations
while the shore passively takes the crashing waves, endlessly
pretending
not to notice the flirt pile of driftwood
all hey…
and, like, what are you up to
later?
where are you now (anyway?) nailing
the sun
to the sky? is that even
a thing?
we will meet up (again) at some point in
a poem
or a star, readjusting
our eyes
to see the beauty in lava rock
represented
in ekphrasis, canvasing our inner
landscapes
to love within us even that which is
infertile
arrival
dear far away one, where you are
is like a seafaring revelation
where I cast away self-loathing, the always
of not enough and too muchness
returned in dividends of an eternal
return of the boring same old solipsisms
colliding with our dreams in which
we are dreaming of the other’s
arrival home, where
the misted marbled timothy
perennially glistens
with morning dew
and the breeze stops the forrest
toads mid-sentence
where we hold one another’s
vulnerabilities and nightmares
engraved in the air
between our bodies gently,
where we find each other,
where we stop
to listen
counter narrative
I’m sending you this as a counter
narrative
or as another way
of asking what is important to us
can we apply our knowledge
to a river
can we devise an alternative
blockchain brain
to help us understand the logo-
rhythms of what is
inherently ours
letting crisis gently access, kiss & saturate
our thoughts of the future & the past
filtering future memories through
the wear and tear of language —
natural, spiritual, mystical & scientific
to form meteor showers & aurora borealis
that remind us to turn out the lights
that remind us that the the night sky
inherently is ours
can you please remember to leave the lights on
in case I decide to come home early?
Razielle is a Montreal-born
writer and artist. She is author of the forthcoming chapbook, Light Waves The Leaves (above/ground
press 2020). Her poems appear or are forthcoming in Entropy, Deluge, Contemporary Verse 2, Bad Dog Review, The Anti-Languorous Project, Dovecote
Magazine, Half a Grapefruit, Moonchild Magazine, Sewer Lid, Fresh Voices, Five:2:One, California Quarterly, and elsewhere. Razielle holds a B.A. in
History and Contemporary Studies from Dalhousie/King’s University, and is an
alumna of The Writer’s Studio at Simon Fraser University.
I’m thinking of you (again) in deep
time
retracing the newfound cloud particles &
ocean
echoes through our many
incarnations
while the shore passively takes the crashing waves, endlessly
pretending
not to notice the flirt pile of driftwood
all hey…
and, like, what are you up to
later?
where are you now (anyway?) nailing
the sun
to the sky? is that even
a thing?
we will meet up (again) at some point in
a poem
or a star, readjusting
our eyes
to see the beauty in lava rock
represented
in ekphrasis, canvasing our inner
landscapes
to love within us even that which is
infertile
arrival
dear far away one, where you are
is like a seafaring revelation
where I cast away self-loathing, the always
of not enough and too muchness
returned in dividends of an eternal
return of the boring same old solipsisms
colliding with our dreams in which
we are dreaming of the other’s
arrival home, where
the misted marbled timothy
perennially glistens
with morning dew
and the breeze stops the forrest
toads mid-sentence
where we hold one another’s
vulnerabilities and nightmares
engraved in the air
between our bodies gently,
where we find each other,
where we stop
to listen
counter narrative
I’m sending you this as a counter
narrative
or as another way
of asking what is important to us
can we apply our knowledge
to a river
can we devise an alternative
blockchain brain
to help us understand the logo-
rhythms of what is
inherently ours
letting crisis gently access, kiss & saturate
our thoughts of the future & the past
filtering future memories through
the wear and tear of language —
natural, spiritual, mystical & scientific
to form meteor showers & aurora borealis
that remind us to turn out the lights
that remind us that the the night sky
inherently is ours
can you please remember to leave the lights on
in case I decide to come home early?
