Post-storm,
the new year’s sun—a soft heat
through
the window—toasts the squint
lost
sleep of your brow. The dog again, somehow,
sigh-purrlicued
behind & against you, a warm
hint,
in the near permanent dell—the sunk
weave—of
your chair’s cushion’s fur-fetid
funk.
She’s all belly & organic heave, a sigh-
manic
white noise: a whole mood on huffy junket.
Poised
to gulp more of too sweet morning
coffee,
there’s then that moment when Saturday’s
soundscape
crescendoes & goes all-at-once,
twice,
askew. A spin cycle’s engaged with a click;
Fortnite’s
first-personing echoes anew, joy-
sticked
down the stairs; your wife’s thumping
a
far room’s desk into being, moving chairs
&
spare parts. The dog starts & then settles,
a
kettle on the verge of calling the day’s pot’s
matted
black, but then doesn’t, having thought
better
(not at all?) of that smack-talking
gambit. You think you’d be fine, if—
you
suppose—you ended right here, right
now:
with this sun’s simple heat, this
dog’s
metered breath, a family’s indiscreet
shifting
through inane tasks & routines
on
this fine, bright, early day. But you want
all
the more now to stay: stay & curse
the
icy idea of death, of being a stupid guest,
a
minor character, in the crude whimsical acts
of
your body’s dumb play; fear mostly the way
you’ll
at some point never know—the hows,
the
whens & the whos; future’s splay—of
what’s
just now, right now, again now, again
now,
become dear—become clear, post-storm,
in
the new year’s soft heat.
Matt Robinson has published six
full-length poetry collections, including Tangled
& Cleft (Gaspereau, 2021) and Some
Nights It’s Entertainment; Some Other Nights Just Work (Gaspereau,
2016), in addition to numerous chapbooks. He has won the Grain Prose Poetry
Prize, the Petra Kenney Award, and The Malahat Review Long Poem Prize, among
others. He is on the editorial board of The
Fiddlehead and he plays a fair bit a beer league hockey. He lives in Kjipuktuk
(Halifax, NS, Canada).
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