Tuesday poem #649 : Conal Smiley : Crocuses

 

 

The night slips its hand over
a sliver of light, and the ribs
are a rigid wing to shield the heart. 

The TV has no reception—

a radiant, blue screen

glowing in the room. Light a candle
and wait. Gold-blue
waves undulate on the walls. 

The mouth, a bush with chittering tenants.
Quiet syntax, flees the stalwart
tongue like sparrows in flight. 

Memory’s lacunae. What happened
last night? I can’t quite recall, but
I can feel its presence— 

a leg mingling with mine.

A rust-coated brain, cluttered
in corners where
experience can’t reach. 

The heart, beneficent
yet clouded. An orphan
of chance, left to fate’s claim. 

It was always the heart,

in search of a silent self beneath.
A crocus waiting, blooming late. 

I have seen enough
in my room for three lifetimes.
I need irrepressible luck

to make it through the back half.

Sliding toward an exit, before
the meal has begun. 

Never forget,
                       dawn is
                       as grievous as dusk, with
                       both at low-light as grey as a suit.

Conal Smiley was born in London, ON. His childhood was spent combing the aisles of bookstores, video stores and record shops, which is where his passion for the arts began. He is mostly self-taught, and after some creative writing classes at UofT, he decided to pursue poetry. He has released two chapbooks: The Winter Circus (above/ground, 2024) and A Blue Room (espresso, 2024); and is featured in the anthology Speech Dries Here on the Tongue (Porcupine’s Quill, 2025). He currently lives in Toronto and works in bookstores.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan