Books pile by our bed
like bricks, each difficult to break. I chisel
until they crumble and cup
the red dust in my hand. At night
it in and the tiny diamonds
make our dreams. But I am tired
of sleep, the ice
gate, the dammed
streams, these brittle days piled
like a pyre, waiting to ignite. Outside
people stroll the sidewalks
like zombies, each pointed
in one of two directions. Their eyes
are grey like the landscape.
Their eyes are grey like the skin
of the sky, wrapped around
dove sitting frozen on the line.
There are no newspapers
beside my bed. I hate
how they rumple, crumpling
in the corners like discarded, dirty
sheets. Anyway, the news
is all the same. We touch
each other under one word
floating in the still, shocked sky:
War. War. War. War. War.
For five years it swells like a welt
on the world, spelled out
in indigo, in the pointillism
of print. The only ink missing
is blood, other than our own.
Lauren Carter’s first manuscript of poetry, Lichen Bright, calls on imagery from the landscape of her youth, the north shore of Lake Huron, as well as time spent in Southern Ontario and British Columbia. Lichen Bright can be ordered through her publisher at www.yourscrivenerpress.com March is from her latest work.