Wednesday, November 5, 2008


You are thirty, bluebird tiny.
Nose a piece of punctuation.
Those are parts of you I notice:
shoulder shiver,
tendon quiver,
violet eyes that slake the light.

I am clumsy, thirty too.
My hands find edges, creep towards them;
My life spent in level lines.
They are safety,
and a failure.
Chances are a chance too much.


lucychili said...

She hesitates, lost
Stranger in her own body.
Fickle memory.
Walking from room to room
looking for the thread of her thinking
Cooking, gardening, computer, crochet,
All rooms stare blankly back
and then the door rings again.
She lets me in

We make tea,
we talk about familiar things,
stories from beyond the fog,
offset by space and time
to safe ground.

Her hands are in her lap
it scares me
Ive never seen her idle
still, meditative, disconnected.
From fast and feisty, energy to burn.
Her life, my inspiration.

We move slowly in a domestic tai chi
Discovering and building context
and purpose with our hands.
I feel a strong sense of
rehearsing my own future.

Our hands and legs shake
eyes blurring.
I am glad I came

Christopher Currie said...

Okay, Janet, your comments have just gotten longer (and better) than my stories. I think it's time for your own writing blog...

lucychili said...

ouch ok
well thankyou for the inspiration =)

lucychili said...

Christopher Currie said...

Nice one! Will add it to my blog list.