Jen Currin, The Sleep of Four Cities (Vancouver: Anvil Press, 2005): 72-73.
1I want to hear the slap
2of your shadow
3as it hits the floor,
4the pins and needles
5of water falling
6tap to tub. I'm tired,
7and what you know
8about me will soon be written
9on a postcard and passed
10in the night.
11We're down to the last few bites.
12Those who are in the habit
13of eating parsley off their plates
14will not help us.
15Wine has cast its blood-shadow
16across our cheeks.
17I've come in off the street
18to confess these crimes.
19We have several mothers in common,
20and while they plot our deaths
21I want to give them something
22to talk about.
23I've misspelled my own name so many times
24and still I remember every syllable
25of every spell.
26Still I remember you humming
27along as the ghosts
28drank water in the kitchen,
29as our mothers counted our fingers and toes.
RPO poem Editors:
Copyright © Jen Currin and used by permission of the poet. Authorization to republish this poem must be obtained from her in writing.