Having abandoned les États-Unis fantasmatiques where reality mashes into cinematic obsessions put-on accents put-upon lovers now there’s nothing but smoke flickers. I am all antlered stag leaping from embers. These days I drink too much rye. I eat too little food. I make notes of this: Too Much Rye while someone smokes a joint outside. The window frame leaks just enough to make these words clank with ice. My hair is in windlocks. The floor is filthy with fur and cypress needles and someone’s blood and I don’t even know whose. Worse. I don’t care. I want to be happy but the story is worn. I want and the land scape is tired. I need to arc back and throw burning questions from what books I have left.
Lisa Pasold grew up in Tio'tia:ke/Montréal & currently lives in Bulbancha/New Orleans. She has six books, one of which, Any Bright Horse, was shortlisted for the Governor General’s Award. To develop her book-length works, she has been writing daily poems for two decades; the resulting poems have appeared in magazines such as The Los Angeles Review, Room, Fence and New American Writing. She is a storyteller & a flower enthusiast.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
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