February 9th The Tomato-coloured Couch 6:58pm
The Internet is down
with a Red Exclamation Mark
notifying This Account
of no connection
I am connected
I am tuned in
on My Island attached
by a flooded causeway
to the rest of The Province
to the rest of The World
I could be, am I?
That Server
–
February 10th The Hawk Corner Room Noon
Can You make a poem
out of a News Report
of an eleven-year-old Boy
killed by carbon monoxide poisoning
while a Father shovelled snow
a Son kept warm
by an idling engine?
–
1:00pm
I could be that Determined Girl
Who shut Her Self in Her Room
stared at Her Self in Her Dresser Mirror
until The Glaring Face
moulded It Self into distorted patches
of brooding dark hues
I could have a lock-in
a lock-down
with the radio on for music
but not for News
The Hawk Corner Room 3:53pm
I was That Pouty Child
stomping Her Left Foot
when She couldn’t see
G-O-D written in The Sky
–
Forty-five years later I am
looking at The Clouds
billowing behind streams of flurries
out over The Ocean
when the notion of God
is no longer literal
The Tomato-coloured Couch 6:47pm
I was That 37 Year-old
with The New Haircut
back from Pass
— why was I even in There?
Because I thought
I was The Second Coming of Christ
wearing A Sign on My Blouse
“Waiting To Be Believed”
with A Helium Balloon tied
to My Very Thin Wrist
being told by Nurses
to take off My “inappropriate” Sign
& My Balloon
so They would agree
to talk to Me
The Tomato-coloured Couch 7:15pm
When My First Husband told Me
He Loved Me
I wore a floral summer dress
to receive My Canadian Citizenship
He was renting a room
outside of Halifax
for a movie job
— He was a Master Carpenter —
I stayed the night with Him
— brought The Children —
in the sparse house of a Scientologist
— the only books were Scientology —
in the dark, quietly
with Eliza in Her portable crib
& Peak on a spare bed
I heard “I Love You”
in My Left Ear
The Hawk Kitchen 7:22pm
I hold a jar in My Left Hand
398 ml 14 oz liq
No Name
Puree de Pommes
non Sucre
straight from The Garden of Eden
not in temptation
but in nourishment
for The World
to see, feel
& swallow
The Meaning of Life
Joanna Gilman Hyde 