The poem I ignored yesterday returned this morning. I’m grateful.
I’d just finished listening to that novel (still not naming it, not just now), and a line from its tender closing scene lingered even after I lifted my phone from my chest and set it on the nightstand.
This felt like a moment to savor. Not rush. Not deflect.
Word Raccoon can’t always bear these kinds of moments, but I waited. A breath, a beat. The psithurism of syllables, like leaves, sounded (a gorgeous word, psithurism, and where has it been all my life?), and I said:
Come here.
I opened my arms and reached for my phone.
The poem that had been lightly circling since yesterday settled onto the screen.
It stayed.
I let it.
I didn’t breathe as I quickly typed, before I even felt properly awake.
Its ending? Ambiguous. Maybe even a little gross, if read a certain way (hi, WR). But I’m pleased. So pleased I may polish it and send it off before I lose my nerve.
Goodreads tells me I first read this novel back in 2014. I don’t track everything there, but it’s better than nothing. I remember discussing it with my Writing Mother soon after I read it.
I’ll re-read it with my eyes, I know. But this time, I needed the softness of someone else’s voice reading to me. The book is sharp. Unflinching. I stopped listening at times, just to breathe.
Not trying to be coy, just speaking, in general, about how a book (and time, and not-time) can open a window. Or a wound. Or, sometimes, a poem.
WR says she’d like to advocate for new-to-her words as gifts. I support this.
Fully.
dremadrudge.com 