Research: Journals
The Journal
Past Issues
25.1
Carol Potter
Eve of an X-Lover's Birthday This
is longing: the worm boring toward the heart,
Lengthening
itself through an intricate life.
—
Cynthia MacDonald,“Vain Remedy”
If you can see it you should be able to walk to it.
There should be a border to it.
That city at the end of my view and the sea next to it.
I stand under the orange tree, and I eat the orange.
The fruit fat in my mouth and the juice on my hands.
Let this be the only fruit. Let the mind’s shadow
stand here in the shade of these orange trees at noon.
You have to get right up under them and that sweet smell almost
too sweet.
I want this to be the sweet, and the hum of this place be the only
hum.
I want no other sound in front of me.
Why let it travel this far? There should be rules.
There should be an edge to this earth and desire stop there.
Keep me out of that kitchen on the other side of the world
with that woman I once loved and won’t ever see again.
Don’t bother calling she said.
It’s over.
Make it stop here. Don’t let me smell the smell of her hair
here.
The sound of her voice has no business in these orange trees.
Let me wade into this blue water. Let me be here.
Let the boats with their white sails sail up to the sharp edge of
this sea, and fall off.
