Space was my employer
and tried to be my lover, too. Space made
me divide my priorities, set me on edge
as sharp as a rule. Scale he called it,
the measure, the aspect, the sense of belonging
to the body you walk in. Pinch it, bind it.
Stroke that body, or the stranger’s lying next
to you. Let space expand to fill grey matter,
explicit portions allotted to it in this 9 to 5 world.
Sometimes you can share space, as long as it isn’t
at the same time. Then it’s called fooling around
or having a family or getting in the way
of the big picture. Anyhow. Space is as space does.
It expands, sure.
Everything leaves once the food has been put away,
The bottles opened and emptied and opened
and emptied, recyclables set to the curb. Breathe deep,
take two big gulps to clear your eyesight. Stretch
your arms to the ceiling above, and look for clusters
you can name: Draco, Cepheus, Ursa Minor. Measure
using your fingers as calipers. Set your hands
on your hips. Retreat to the underpinning of eaves
set tight and drop every space you’ve ever owned.
* * *
Something about space. I started to read Gaston Bachelard’s The Poetics of Space last year, but didn’t finish. There is a long story about the trying to read it that makes me sad. I think this prompt might beget a series. If I am lucky and have bad luck.
* * *
Some folks are participating in a Couplets blog tour, coordinated by Joanne Merriam of Upper Rubber Boot Books. Angie Werren will be sharing her micro-poetry space at feathers with other poets. Sherry Chandler is also participating. Do give a read.