2 September 2004 | Vol. 4, No. 3
Tuesday
Bees in the apartment, a burnt smell.
Always I send what can only be called love.
Eating goat cheese & our friend's salad
we are frivolous as pronouns.
You address your lyre,
I pray to the fucking
& celibate goddesses.
Some are better from a distance,
like she who kisses as she dances.
Your fingers smell like coffee grounds.
I am you.
I have no desire to tell a story
but there is one that starts:
On our bike ride to the volcano
an owl stared through my sister…
I have been in my wrong mind.
The mind of a teacher shaking out a bag of paper.
When we don't fall there is not much to say.
An entire black-and-white existence—
You know, we know, it is known.
I'm not a story but a bathside table.
I stare long at the number eight.
My sister said don't eat the green potatoes.
I have no desire to.
About the author:
Jen Currin lives in Vancouver, B.C., with her wife, the talented Christine Leclerc. Jen has published one book, The Sleep of Four Cities (Anvil Press, 2005), and has one forthcoming: Hagiography (Winnow Press). She teaches creative writing at the Vancouver Film School and Langara College.
For further reading:
See the complete list of work by Jen Currin at 42opus. Browse the contents of 42opus Vol. 4, No. 3, where "Tuesday" ran on September 2, 2004. List other work with these same labels: poetry.
