Joanna Gilman Hyde

He was just a shoulder

Undulating in the shadows

Of My Night Light

My Mother played

In Her Nova Scotia island house

Held up by summer rental income

From her beaver board home

In Valley Cottage

Held up by her parents’

Favouritism

Held up by her children’s

Love

Of their mother’s

Spunk

And their mother’s love

Of Place

Eye build My Bed

In The Eyes of The World

And a very fine bed it is

It is

It is

Gathered in the corners

Laid afresh with new sheets

And matching blanket

It is covered with The Quilt

Of eternal rippling

And Eye have yet

To stir My Self

Beneath

It’s silken waves

Eye am on a fisherman’s schedule

Waking in the night’s middle

Doing my exercises well before dawn

Drinking my coffee @ McDonald’s

To watch the sky light up

While listening to the men

My Bed is made for My Self

Now Now

Made of an old bottom

LL Bean Flannel

A top cream holy one

With wave patterned trim —

It is now My Bed

Claimed after My Childhood

Claimed after dating My Self

For almost 50 years

Eye dance through

My “real” Life

And My Paintings

Leave

A Trail of Stars

My House is no longer cold

With the winter air

Of isolation

My house is room temperature

Now, now

That Eye have welcomed

My Estranged Husband

As traveling companion

And friend

Eye have joined The Others

In chairs of steel

Waiting in Their Lobby

For lunch and supper

Waiting in Their Rooms

For The Son

Eye am glad

Dr Blair’s Big White Castle

Burned to the ground —

Eye am safe

Alone now

Here in M(eye) Own

Eye have begun a painting

On the floor of M(eye) basement

Studio —

Not so much a painting

As a collection

Of the detritus

Of M(eye) past

2 million years