Member-only story
The Sixteenth of August
poems from the north, day 13
The first week
loose thoughts wriggle constantly,
a series of eels with no intention
of being caught.
The light in the attic
flickers on and off sporadically.
My darlings simply won’t die.
They’re wrestled
from my writing like obstinate
alligators. My waist grows thick
on the rind of awareness
with no direct purpose
that stalks each corner.
That vicious spark in their eyes
goads me, onwards.
Each day I caterpillar
closer to their hidden bungalow,
ripe with the jasmine of truth.
Today I wake, perched
in front of an ancient door.
When my hand rises
to knock it splinters off.
Each piece turns crow.
Just like that, the jig is up.
I’m holding a paper pass.
It’s time to board.
If you’d like to follow my vacation journey, there’s more below:
