Eye own an apple
only it’s dead —
completely dead now
butt it is the only tree Eye own
Eye will not cut it down
from M(eye) Backyard
where this morning
a red-headed bird
landed on it
at 9:11
My Mother’s Life
on McNutt’s Island
my growing up summers
was a life of fantasy
with oil lamps and well pails
seafood from Shelburne Harbour.
Eye was My Mother’s right arm
living out Her play-house dream
marrying a man of Her approval
who fathered my daughter Eliza
the year My Mother died
of a malignant brain tumour
at age 59.
That fateful year of 1993
a fantasy developed in me
not of place but of man —
a little man Eye could never have —
and My Daughter was distanced.
Today She drives with Her Boyfriend
to Hinton Alberta
for a winter job of beetle probing
while Eye look at photographs
of My Mother’s Island Paradise
in preparation for the publication
of McNutt’s Island Journal
written by Elizabeth Walden Hyde
during Her 84/85 winter
out there
alone.
My dream last night
was of a large bird
with the ring-necked markings of Sam
an extravagant parrot
huge in colour
an armfull
as Eye tried to get Him
to perch on my left wrist
he landed on my head —
Eye wore Him like a hat
and asked My Mother
to take a picture
In the darkness of my room
Eye gleaned a speck of light
at the foot of my bed.
My Can Painting!
“M(eye) B-day Present
2 M(eye) S-E-L-F”
The speck grew as dawn came
into a constellation of three stars
and gradually revealed its configuration
of dripping paint
gleaming whiteness
and sparkling its flattened 7-up can
and shards of broken wine glass
given to me by a friend.
This morning Eye presented My Self
with the choice of writing
at my little narrow writing desk
bought by Dr Blair over ten years ago
or, thanks to the weather,
out on my deck rail
in the sun
in my bathrobe
in the unseasonable breeze
with my copper kettle going
for whichever place:
to write that Eye have compartmentalized
my poetry journals, numbering 64
in chronological order
on a bottom oak shelf
in the former library
of Dr Blair
The choice Eye have made
is to write here, now
in my 65th journal
supported by the damp deck rail
and by the sounds of birds
and by the sight of the Atlantic ocean
which Eye call home
This is written
on My Son’s 34th Birthday
“The Naming of Maria”
Who came to me
from a church ceiling
in Middle Le Have
during its 2016 Candlelight Service
while Eye listened to the song
“Her Name Shall Be Mary”
Eye have since stated
Eye have My Spiritual Daughter
dark-haired and timeless
She grows in My Mind
and Eye wear a heart-shaped gold nugget
in Her Honour
and sleep beneath Her Portrait
painted as the only figurative nude
Eye have ever painted
Eye have born the grief of Maria
alone
yet Her Eternal Existence
fortifies me
Does that mean you dont want to have sex with anyone or you want to have sex with everyone? What does it mean to be sex–less? Sort of like an alien? Why arent the descriptive terms gay or straight enough? Butt then of course there’s “Bi” and why isnt THAT enough?
He was The Object
of M(eye) Desire:
The Pet
and Eye fed Him well
butt was that any way
2 run a marriage?
In the dark of 3 am
Eye was thinking to write
a poem titled Sordid-ity
(where Sordidness is the word)
with brown bedding
and perpetually closed curtains
in the apartment of my X husband’s girlfriend
but then Eye had a dream
of a temporary dorm room
where the bed was in the middle
and she lolled on a day bed
exclaiming she didnt think
she could be faithful.
A door opened across from me
to reveal her disjointed family
and Eye yelled out
“My name is Joanna–
sorry I haven’t met you yet!”
When Eye thought I was moving
Eye threw out my little black X–miss tree
black with feathers stuck on every bow
of Hawk drift wood
with a steak knife for a star
Someone took it from my pile of trash
and Eye was glad
Joanna Gilman Hyde 