June: "go where the light is"
An iPhone picture of my aunt's yard on June 17th 2022; film scans to come soon.
Some housekeeping:
I'm in a critique group that has put out a wonderful exhibition, Wildness, and an accompanying book. The exhibition closes 6/29! Reach out if you'd like to buy a copy of the book.
Photography aside, I am a poet and I am real tired of pretending like I'm not one. I have written poems for a long, long time. I used to share them under a pseudonym. It's me, I'm here, I'm the speaker of the poem, folks. Here is a poem I wrote in my backyard in Bed-Stuy about a trip I took home last week.
*
go where the light is
Wednesday I tried to find
the enclave where I used to
throw out every anxious breath
and hum harmonics but I was
too far down past the wrong
field not one I ever even
dreamed about us in, and
then it was time to meet;
Thursday took me round back
hills I would struggle to climb
today, the same streets with
different toothy buildings, and I
tossed over my shoulder the fact
that this place is cursed and then
wiped sweat and pizza grease off
my lip while you talked too much -
Friday somehow I staggered around
sun-worn and wilting in my white
shirt and finally at the house which
has smelled the same my whole life
there spread out a golden wash across the grass.
one home I have is in your arms but also
it is every blade of kentucky blue that
I have ever had to leave behind
I thought if I drove up 29 I could leave
that lodestone behind but it took me
back to our part of the park which was
aglow with the thrum of fireflies
and then for three days I ran
fast as I could to pretend I could
live without the sun, to pretend
I would breathe fine in a vacuum
they say I should be happy here.
I malinger and loathe and laze.
the light, here, is one or two dull
bugs that glow once and then
disappear, making me wonder
if there was ever light here at all.
*
x
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