The poet’s name is Shannon Burns. I searched all over the internet for her and finally found her on goodreads of all places. I wrote her a message because I bought her little book in Chicago and I love it. The look of it, the size, the poems. But whoever checks their goodreads messages? I didn’t even know there was such a thing until this week. But I hope she reads it and thinks I’m crazy-in-a-good-way. I like her poems. Here’s one:
I could be cutting bread. All the sharp knives
are dirty, ragged edges, sesame seeds on my hands,
on the sticky counter, on the cool floor. They could bloom.
But I am swinging, feeling the slight curve of my back
against the wood, feeling my face flush and numb,
watching movement in windows. People are cutting bread.
Their sticky hands live in cabinets. Mine are hot and full
of blood, melting watermelon candy in my pockets.
I am making noise. People cut bread to the rhythm
of my creak and whine. Weeks ago the wind blew
a child’s pool in the shape of an elephant over the wood
fence. You can see it from the road. Some day
it will be warm again, I think. I think: joints, gums, children,
knowing where to go. I remember this swing overturned
in the yard, my father painting it green. I remember standing
at the kitchen counter with my mother, cutting bread.