Strapped sandals lift the lady
above the lawn. Hung linens adopt her
hippy contours. This is no steamy
Tide commercial. Our star is absorbed
in cooler, wetter realities. She wears
a blue dress, white scarf. Her mouth
twitches wryly into some future. What
rustles toward her through the October
yard? Consider recklessness, how it breeds
in safe places. Was laundry ever just
a chore? Hold a rinsed blouse to your
face. Gaze through its weave at the gauzy
world. Notice how whiteness drinks itself
blue, agitates the fallen red
leaves. Those blankets have been under
your skin. They have things to tell you—
grey, woolly things. She lugs them out
to air their moth-eaten souls. How
gracefully she hoists her basket, all her
From Out to Dry in Cape Breton, Véhicule Press, 2006
disappointments. It’s clear from her eyes, the absence
of pins. Nothing here will blow away.
Lovely poem! Favourite lines: “her Cyrano de Bergerac/snout, over her lumpy coronet” and “grasp at a willowy stalk, and pivot…
Thank you, Alice! I loved it too. And it comes to mind often, which is not common, even for books…
I loved this book, Anita, and thoroughly enjoyed reading your thoughts and insights about it. Thank you!
Thank you Maureen! I greatly appreciate your comment. And yes, I too, was thinking about the translation & how well…
Fiona, thank you. It is not lost on me that you have a seahorse poem I love. Maureen Hynes reminded…