the ship has turned

I try not to complain too much in this space, but if you know me in person (ahem, Duchessers on the opening weekday shift), you've heard me air more than a few grievances over the last two-and-a-half years.  It has been really hard. By 'it', I mean all of it, or what has seemed like all of it. And by 'hard' I mean nigh on unbearable.

There has been the (naively unexpected) struggle to stand up under the weight of adult responsibilities. Owning, keeping, and renting a house is, it turns out, more than we signed up for. When mushrooms started growing out of the baseboards in my study last spring, I thought that I might have finally reached the end of my rope. Then the rain in August happened; we left in the middle of the night and over four months later returned home. I lost most of my garden last year. I almost lost my most important person. There has been the battle to keep our relationship healthy, alive, existent--and I spent much of the winter battling against Tim rather than for him. I did damage that terrifies me. There has been a five-year history of panic attacks, anxiety, and depression to start recovering from, and redeeming, and this has seemed like a doomed project. In January I wrote: the more I notice my problems, the more I delve into my own mind, the harder it is to act normal. I feel like I am giving body to a latent, restless ghost of craziness which has just been waiting in my head for me to fully incarnate it. There's been the daily pressure of living on a low income. There's been the daily impossible decision to try to produce creative work when I could be earning money instead. There's been this incredibly long, drawn-out quest for a bachelor's degree, and a point last August when I thought I'd decided I wouldn't finish it. There have been fucking long winters. There have been hopes and plans buried alternately under clutter, under snow, under raw sewage, under red tape, under the covers, under pages of lists, under my own hands.

--------

On Tuesday morning, Tim and I had just returned from the mountains. Tim's parents, who had been keeping Simpkin for us, were supposed to be delivering him home any minute. Tim sat down at his desk, looked at his screen and said, "Lizzie, you are really, really not going to like this". I knew instantly. A window screen had come off in the night; Simpkin was gone; they'd only just noticed. Tim's mum came to pick us up so we could search and call for him.

Is is my temperament, or the sympathy-enabling super-connectivity of the world, or a human penchant for rehearsing grief that made it familiar? I felt I could have been the one reading the email to Tim. I knew it all. I knew that within days I would be at a vet or the SPCA to identify a piece of roadkill that had once been the sweet, brave cat I once adopted. I would not have been surprised to see a bloody, furry lump on the side of the street in St. Albert where Tim's parents live.

Except that right now, Simpkin is asleep on our bed and has been all day.

When we got to St. Albert, we were out of the car and calling. I looked under cars, tried to look through the planks into neighbors' backyards, looked under bushes and porches. I circled the block. It started to get hot and I started to feel sick. There was a forecast for temperatures above 30 C. We searched the overgrown backyard again. The shed. The room downstairs with the open window in case he came back. Then I sat on the front steps and cried. Tim brought me water and made Simpkin an entry in a missing pets database. We decided to print off a poster with a picture Tim's sister had taken before Simpkin disappeared, then go home. The printer wasn't working. We ate bowls of Vector cereal and Tim went downstairs to try to print from the desktop computer. I went back outside. I looked under the shed again. Tim came out, holding a printed sheet. "I  don't know if this is any good--he looks black." I heard something and called, interrupting Tim. I heard it again. I called. Tim said, "I think it's a bird, but try again." A sad, cracking quack more than a meow. We thrashed aside raspberry canes. I went around to check the other side of the patch, and when I ran back Tim was holding a spitting, hissing Simpkin aloft. I ran inside for the crate while Tim pinned him down--Tim's mum had been watching from the window and was already handing it to me at the door of the bathroom. We let Simpkin into the crate and took him inside to recover. My anger and muteness toward Tim's mum had disappeared. Everything could be good again. We brought him home, cleaned his ears, sprayed him with water for heat exhaustion. Here he is. He is fine.

"I'm so glad I went back outside. He might have died of exposure--it was so hot and those bushes are so thick."

"Yes. It would have been sad to find a little cat skeleton out there in the winter when the foliage died back."

I almost howled at the thought.

--------

Of course, I was convinced that we had not only lost Simpkin, we were once again being made calamity's bitch. But I think there has been a change.

Today my grandparents on my mum's side stopped by to tell me that they are distributing some of the proceeds from the sale of their house in town. Later in the week I will be receiving several thousand dollars. First I thought: This is the beginning of the end. They are sharing out portions of their estate. On the heels of my premature feelings of fear and grief and (already) denial: an inappropriate, wild sense of relief. Something good has happened. And I thought: This is the beginning. The ship is beginning to turn. After this torturous year, someone has come to my rescue. Someone is easing this weight on me. Now things are possible. 

(It is characteristic of my grandparents to come to my rescue.) The money means that I can pay off my student loan and my credit card and still have enough left over to cover my next semester of tuition--because I am going back to school in September. If I get my usual grant from the government, most of the year's tuition will be paid for. I can almost certainly graduate without debt.

For now, I am reeling. I am tempted to chastise myself for these past months of bitterness and despair, but I mostly just want to share the good--fantastic, lovely, iridescent, delicious--news. Thanks for sticking with me. Sailing on.

xx Lizzie

on actually writing stuff

Great news, folks.

Simpkin and the drafts

For all of my dubious talk, I have something to show you. After sifting through two years of accumulated drafts and notes, after memorizing one Yeats poem, after starting to fill the first new binder of finished work since 2009, after realizing that, contrary to my whining mantra, I actually never stopped writing, I have one new poem and one new story. 

The story I just finished yesterday. It's my first story since The Crow Suits (does anyone remember that one? I scribbled the first draft when I was 16). It's fact-based. It seems that now I can write about my childhood (what?). It takes place in the very small Saskatchewan town that I lived in from the ages of 4-8, and I'm hoping to add to it with more "episodes" from the same weird era. Do you want to read it? I can't publish it online because it's destined for a contest, but I can (and would love to) email it to you. 

The poem, along with a few older, unpublished pieces, will be up on my Tumblr page tomorrow. 

I'm back again, kiddies. It feels really good. 

On returning to a house you expected not to return to

In January, we moved back into our house instead of moving to Germany. The plan fizzed out in November or December and it was my fault. Everyone here knows almost exactly what went on between the end of summer and Christmas: the drama, the sex, the ugliness between Tim and I that started to affect everyone around us. Forgive me, but I am not prepared to write all of that. Looking back, less than two months later, I already feel that I became unhinged in a completely characteristic, devastating, and embarrassing way; there is a sense of tragic inevitability about everything that went wrong, even as I complained (to everyone), bewildered and raging. I don't know what to say.

I do know that it would be a cop-out for me to write it off as a passing bout of craziness. Since I have been back here, basking in privacy and normalcy, there have been uncomfortable daily doses of self-realization. (Maybe moving to Germany was a way to try and run away. If I've managed to come back to myself, it's been to find a charming house that is falling down.) I have been thinking about my own anxiety, fear, anger, mental health. I've been examining memories of myself and my parents. I have seen patterns emerging in the events of the past 6 or 7 years--ways I have continually sabotaged myself and others, mistakes I keep making, ways I have of thinking about the world as an enemy, ways I have of thinking of my own life as something terrible that happens to me, my life as something I must make up or apologize for. 

I like to call myself a writer, and the stories I like to tell myself are profoundly unhelpful, even damning. 

That sense of tragedy, for instance, is a double-edged sword. Do my own personality, habits, habits of thought cause a set of predictable problems? Yes. Is it productive to view myself as a plane flying futile and unstoppable into a tower? No. Tim and I were talking this morning about family- and self-narratives. It is so important to take on the role of a wise and and wry and hopeful storyteller in relation to your own life. It is so hard to do that. I tend to sing the songs of disappointment, helplessness and thwarted expectations. When I became an atheist, I threw away the convenient (often hopeful, comforting, and stabilizing) narrative of liberal Christianity and cobbling together a replacement has been a discouraging business. (Interestingly: I have realized that the process of reading and writing itself constitutes what comes closest to a religious rite for me, and that literature grounds me the same way that Christianity used to.)

I would like to stop living in a post-modern crisis mode which I recite into existence. I started by trying to deal with the panic attacks--I've mostly stopped having them, and now I am taking L-theanine for anxiety. Every morning, Tim weighs me out a dose on a cute little drug scale and mixes into a shot glass of water. For the first time in five years, I don't feel at all times like a hunted antelope. Other changes are coming. I am writing again, and with any luck, I'll soon be able to share some poetry and at least one short story. I hope to start adding content to my Tumblr project this week. It's good to return. 

HELLO



I have not in fact died. I'm right here. I'm still in Edmonton. I have a million things to tell you, but it may take a few days. I'm just climbing down. I'm working on setting things up a little differently. Bear with me, and I will be back soon.

xxx Lizzie


vagabonds

We've been gone for five weeks now. We've spent three weeks at Tim's parents', one week with four of Tim's coworkers at the Transcend house, and one week at a seventh floor concrete sanctuary of a condo downtown. We're back there for a few nights. We are living on the back of a community, eating very large crumbs. Remember: We cannot become hermits. I cannot burn bridges. We need other people. They've fed us, taken vegetables off our hands, given us beds, lent us phones, driven us around. They've invited us over for supper and to stay for weeks.We're seeing a lot of our friends. We're seeing much more of the city. It's all practice for Germany, I suppose.

I need surprisingly little. Some of the things I've been hauling around with me: Annalena (my yellow road bike), a cloth tape measure, headphones, brown sugar, steel cut oats, laptop, paper clip stitch markers, four books of poetry (Bertolt Brecht, Emily Dickinson, Sylvia Plath, Stanley Kunitz), two scarves, two dresses, two hats, two hoodies, two mittens, a foil packet of black tea, a huge ball of wool yarn, a flat of mason jars, a pumice stone.

I've been borrowing books from friends and the library. I've read more than I did over the entire summer. Last night at the condo I canned green tomato salsa after Tim and I biked home and pillaged the tomato plants one last time. It has been suspiciously warm all autumn, but the contractor ferreted my parka away in a storage pod, and I am knitting a cardigan just in case. Simpkin mostly stays with us. He is a courteous, comforting, admirable cat.

In brutal contrast to Simpkin: contractors and insurance adjusters. Can I properly express how much I have grown to despise bureaucracy over this past month? The Circumlocution Office (Little Dorrit) could hardly seem more intent on doing absolutely nothing useful or reasonable.

I should sign off--it's 6:47 am and I need to leave for work. I've been working so much. It's hard. But I think the move is really going to happen. We jumped the gun and bought suitcases, and we apply for visas next week. I'm using some gorgeous free software to study German. Work on the house is supposed to start this week. We have three invitations for Thanksgiving dinner. Maybe we'll be home (for a while) by the end of the month.

better stars


This picture is making me a bit sad. What a summer.

Last Thursday night, late, it rained harder than I have ever seen it rain. We got a month's worth of rain in half an hour. It sounded like hail; it was only water. Tim and I were having a terrible fight. I sat in our doorway watching it for twenty minutes, then I came inside and went to bed. An unhomely aggressive gurgling got us up in time to see the city sewer begin backing up out of the floor drain in our bathroom. For the first time, I heard Tim swear. "Fuck." Our kitchen floor was swimming almost immediately. We called 311, we called Tim's parents, and I tried to make a dam of bath towels. Tim said, "Do you want to move far away?"

Once the thing that Tim is now calling 'the poo geyser' subsided, and the water started flowing back down the drain, the only thing to do was leave. We left. We spent last week with Tim's parents, who swooped in and rescued us. We've only been back to collect clothes and food, move all of our possessions into the bedroom, slop bleach water around, and rip things up. It feels brutal.

It also feels relieving. We are going to start new. Our plans are only half-formed, but we are planning to go to Germany shortly after Christmas. We will find renters for our hobbit hole. We will pack our things into a huge steel box. We will study the language. We will get Simpkin a cat-passport. We will have an adventure. For now, I've withdrawn from university classes and am working full-time.

Wish us luck.

Hello again


I waited and waited to get some decent pictures before posting; but friends, I felt lonely. Here is the news. It is summer now. I haven't settled into the productive routine I had planned out for myself. I am not used to so many cafe shifts. Days of exertion and too much sun have left my body complaining. My sit bones are bruised from my bicycle, my hands are swollen from digging, my arms are sunburned, my back aches. So far, the potatoes are planted and the beds are dug. Seeds have been purchased. I'm reading Guns, Germs, and Steel by Jared Diamond. We ordered a lawnmower and bought blueberry bushes to plant under the giant evergreen. I finished my dress and pair of plain socks. Tim and I spent the past two days in Calgary. The verdict on the micro-culture three hours away? Calgary's hipsters are slicker, cleaner, more expensive, and less collegiate. Less like young lumberjacks and fishwives. Calgary's restaurants are disarmingly good. Calgary contains more cyclists, more hills, more flowering trees. Calgary's streets are nonsensically numbered. Astonishingly enough, it's the first time we've been away together. Sitting in unfamiliar parks, bicycling a Google maps route, and walking into cafes where for once we were the ones who weren't sure of the lining-up and table busing procedures, I realized how much I want us to strike out on our own. I want us to make a city our own. I want to make an adventuresome and ambitious start. Did I tell you we are thinking about Germany? 


For now, there is so much work to do.

the old view from here

A couple of days ago I sent off an angsty, stilted, apologetic email to one of my closest friends. I told her something I'd been keeping to myself--something I'd been afraid to admit to myself or anyone else, something that had been brewing for a long time. She laughed at me, gently, because she already knew. 

Tim knew before I told him. Perhaps, what with my idolization of certain musicians, you all saw this coming before I did. 

I'm not, well, straight. 

I wasn't going to write about it here. It seemed like a discussion out of place, smack in the middle of posts about knitting, food, books; more than that, I was afraid of offending you, the readers. I was afraid that bisexuality was the last straw. You were already putting up with my atheism, my non-feminism, my unorthodox marriage. I felt like I should apologize. 

But I think there's been enough apologizing. I'm not thirteen anymore, scared that a crush on a girlfriend would destroy my life and all prospects of future happiness (and send me to hell). I don't have much else to say on the matter, but I'm happy and relieved to be saying this much. I was sick of pretending. The four-years writer of this blog, the (nearly) 22-year old woman, the one still in love with Tim Put, the author of 200-odd poems, the homebody, the English student? She liked girls the whole time. 

Simpkin


It is almost unthinkable. We have adopted the tiny grey cat and named him Simpkin, after the cat in Beatrix Potter's The Tailor of Gloucester. He's a stray, probably three months old. He's spent two nights indoors now. It's already getting cold. 

I have never owned an animal, and never tended to a little life. There is a surprising surge of joy to find Simpkin waiting for me outside, or to have him fold himself snugly (smugly) and insistently into my lap. It is astounding that we, personally, are able save him from growing ill and freezing to death over the winter. 

His eyes are the brightest blue and tawniest gold. He has faint tiger stripes on the end of his tail. He has survived all alone all summer, but now we are taking him in. I am deeply glad. 


a few items

Things feel so hopeful this evening. I thought I would give you a few items (what qualifies as news around here):

~ Our third rhubarb plant has pulled through a very rough transplanting indeed. After two weeks of flopping around in the mud, its stalks are finally perking up.

~ After intending to do so since our first year of university, when Tim took a course and brought home an intriguing textbook, I've been making my way through an introduction to mathematical proof-writing.

~ My friend Laura is coming over on Sunday, and we are going to sew harem pants like the ones all the women I saw in European airports last summer were wearing. And I can honestly say that I don't remember the last time I was so excited.  I need to buy some cotton print.

~ I bought peonies and a hydrangea for our empty front flower bed. Those huge, bobbing heads of flowers are hardly real. And I found sorrel at the same greenhouse. Sorrel! The herb that tastes like sour apples; I used to eat it out of my Mum's garden when I was six. She had an amazing garden that year, the first and the last for a long time. Now I'll plant it myself, beside the covered patio, and harvest handfuls for potato soup.

~ (We finally planted the potatoes. We were so late. I hope they come up.)

~ For the past ten days or so, I've been utterly drained, stripped to my nerves, emptied of all physical and emotional reserves. Eight-hour shifts have turned into tests of endurance. I've fallen off my bike once, and I spent all day yesterday in bed. Tim and I put our heads together, squinted at my inner eyelids, and diagnosed anemia due to iron deficiency. I don't think I've ever purchased red meat, since moving out of my parents' house, but the time has come.

~ Tim built our first fire in the backyard tonight. The flames ate around the rings in the wood.

~ I'm in the middle of purging and organizing the files and programs on my laptop. I've never done it before, and it's strange, to learn my way around this little machine that I've used every day for five years.

status quo

A post of little eloquence.

It is February's fault. I am at loose ends, split ends, and split fingernails.

I quit a job I loved in spite of hating it. And we left our first little home in a neighborhood we never hated, but did not love quite enough. Winter arrived late. Taking the bus for the first time in six months brought it back very clearly--this city is not something I want to have to experience stripped of a sense of belonging to certain streets and shops. My ideal I is a bicycle commuter, a barista, a student, a local writer, a hipster--and all tied to our old neighborhood. You could say we've moved to a white trash area.

The difference is all of 30 blocks, so why do I hardly recognize myself? I've bought more clothes in the past two weeks than I did in the past year preceding them. I work in a different cafe, living off cereal, and I'm sure I've gained five pounds. I haven't written a word or taken a picture or sewn a stitch. But I have gotten my nipples pierced--is this something you'd rather not hear? It's hot though. Today I am dressed all in black. (I just want to be Lisbeth Salander.)

I feel a disconnect. If I've learned anything of myself, it's that I need a home.

house home

Yes, it's true. We bought a house.

Three weeks ago, we were browsing around vaguely on ComFree. Two weeks from now, we get possession and move in.

The living room is already full of boxes. We have a to-do list a mile long, and it includes applying for two new jobs on our new side of the river. I haven't been writing, but have instead been signing papers, taking extra shifts, sending out feelers and emails and making phone calls. I was not expecting to desert this house, this snowy garden, this hipster neighborhood, these bottle pickers, this gas stove, these bicycle routes, this newly-constructed mobile so quickly. Our life (so steady for two years) will be so different.

We will live in the basement suite, renting out the upstairs. Tim will have a heated workshop. His tools will move out of his parents' basement at last. I will have raised beds in the backyard and something of a study. We may finally have dogs, a microwave, a mortgage.

And oh we want them. They mean a place for us to work and design and manufacture. They mean an investment, something solid. They mean that we are managing our little money. They mean that we are stirring ourselves, going forward.

It isn't our dream house. It isn't smack in the middle of the city, where I love to be. It has small windows downstairs (where we'll live), carpets-not-hardwood, electric stoves. But we are so young. We have help that no one else we know has, and we are doing something we thought we'd have to wait six years to do. We feel lucky.

(Pictures galore to come.)

on the up and up

I finished Justina's sweater. I'll get her to model it soon. She looks beautiful.
I finished Godel, Escher, Bach - the most difficult book I've ever read.
I have submissions in at Grain Magazine, Room Magazine, and The Wascana Review. (I sent them the new poems.)
I made my Christmas cards this morning. They're the loveliest things. I'll show you this afternoon when flikr starts working.
I filed my dental insurance claim. You have no idea how long this has taken me.
I bought bacon, because this is the week I attempt Boston Baked Beans. You have no idea how long this has taken me.

Snow forecasted for Tuesday. I am not afraid.

And Tim gave me a cup warmer. A tiny burner he used to melt hide glue. I am no longer freezing my hands at my desk, and I am sure my poems will now improve. This is such a good way to live.

There is some news

One month from now, I am going to Ethiopia for ten days.

Next year, I am taking the Winter semester off to write, postponing my university transfer by one year.

I am slowly putting up a new blog, where thoughts on learning-to-eat will go.

I am nearly halfway through one of the toughest books I have ever read (Godel, Escher, Bach).

This morning

I cried all night, over this news story. This morning it's starting to storm. My eyes are swollen. The Edmonton branch of the Delta Kappa Epsilon has its headquarters two blocks from the end of my usual running route, and its members are under threat of expulsion this week for abuse of initiates. I have been suddenly reminded of everything I make it a point to ignore, to live in spite of.

"Last Letter" - Ted Hughes

What happened that night? Your final night.
Double, treble exposure
Over everything. Late afternoon, Friday,
My last sight of you alive.
Burning your letter to me, in the ashtray,
With that strange smile. Had I bungled your plan?
Had it surprised me sooner than you purposed?
Had I rushed it back to you too promptly?
One hour later—-you would have been gone
Where I could not have traced you.
I would have turned from your locked red door
That nobody would open
Still holding your letter,
A thunderbolt that could not earth itself.
That would have been electric shock treatment
For me.
Repeated over and over, all weekend,
As often as I read it, or thought of it.
That would have remade my brains, and my life.
The treatment that you planned needed some time.
I cannot imagine
How I would have got through that weekend.
I cannot imagine. Had you plotted it all?

Your note reached me too soon—-that same day,
Friday afternoon, posted in the morning.
The prevalent devils expedited it.
That was one more straw of ill-luck
Drawn against you by the Post-Office
And added to your load. I moved fast,
Through the snow-blue, February, London twilight.
Wept with relief when you opened the door.
A huddle of riddles in solution. Precocious tears
That failed to interpret to me, failed to divulge
Their real import. But what did you say
Over the smoking shards of that letter
So carefully annihilated, so calmly,
That let me release you, and leave you
To blow its ashes off your plan—-off the ashtray
Against which you would lean for me to read
The Doctor’s phone-number.
My escape
Had become such a hunted thing
Sleepless, hopeless, all its dreams exhausted,
Only wanting to be recaptured, only
Wanting to drop, out of its vacuum.
Two days of dangling nothing. Two days gratis.
Two days in no calendar, but stolen
From no world,
Beyond actuality, feeling, or name.

My love-life grabbed it. My numbed love-life
With its two mad needles,
Embroidering their rose, piercing and tugging
At their tapestry, their bloody tattoo
Somewhere behind my navel,
Treading that morass of emblazon,
Two mad needles, criss-crossing their stitches,
Selecting among my nerves
For their colours, refashioning me
Inside my own skin, each refashioning the other
With their self-caricatures,

Their obsessed in and out. Two women
Each with her needle.

That night
My dellarobbia Susan. I moved
With the circumspection
Of a flame in a fuse. My whole fury
Was an abandoned effort to blow up
The old globe where shadows bent over
My telltale track of ashes. I raced
From and from, face backwards, a film reversed,
Towards what? We went to Rugby St
Where you and I began.
Why did we go there? Of all places
Why did we go there? Perversity
In the artistry of our fate
Adjusted its refinements for you, for me
And for Susan. Solitaire
Played by the Minotaur of that maze
Even included Helen, in the ground-floor flat.
You had noted her—-a girl for a story.
You never met her. Few ever met her,
Except across the ears and raving mask
Of her Alsatian. You had not even glimpsed her.
You had only recoiled
When her demented animal crashed its weight
Against her door, as we slipped through the hallway;
And heard it choking on infinite German hatred.

That Sunday night she eased her door open
Its few permitted inches.
Susan greeted the black eyes, the unhappy
Overweight, lovely face, that peeped out
Across the little chain. The door closed.
We heard her consoling her jailor
Inside her cell, its kennel, where, days later,
She gassed her ferocious kupo, and herself.

Susan and I spent that night
In our wedding bed. I had not seen it
Since we lay there on our wedding day.
I did not take her back to my own bed.
It had occurred to me, your weekend over,
You might appear—-a surprise visitation.
Did you appear, to tap at my dark window?
So I stayed with Susan, hiding from you,
In our own wedding bed—-the same from which
Within three years she would be taken to die
In that same hospital where, within twelve hours,
I would find you dead.
Monday morning
I drove her to work, in the City,
Then parked my van North of Euston Road
And returned to where my telephone waited.

What happened that night, inside your hours,
Is as unknown as if it never happened.
What accumulation of your whole life,
Like effort unconscious, like birth
Pushing through the membrane of each slow second
Into the next, happened
Only as if it could not happen,
As if it was not happening. How often
Did the phone ring there in my empty room,
You hearing the ring in your receiver—-
At both ends the fading memory
Of a telephone ringing, in a brain
As if already dead. I count
How often you walked to the phone-booth
At the bottom of St George’s terrace.
You are there whenever I look, just turning
Out of Fitzroy Road, crossing over
Between the heaped up banks of dirty sugar.
In your long black coat,
With your plait coiled up at the back of your hair
You walk unable to move, or wake, and are
Already nobody walking
Walking by the railings under Primrose Hill
Towards the phone booth that can never be reached.
Before midnight. After midnight. Again.
Again. Again. And, near dawn, again.

At what position of the hands on my watch-face
Did your last attempt,
Already deeply past
My being able to hear it, shake the pillow
Of that empty bed? A last time
Lightly touch at my books, and my papers?
By the time I got there my phone was asleep.
The pillow innocent. My room slept,
Already filled with the snowlit morning light.
I lit my fire. I had got out my papers.
And I had started to write when the telephone
Jerked awake, in a jabbering alarm,
Remembering everything. It recovered in my hand.
Then a voice like a selected weapon
Or a measured injection,
Coolly delivered its four words
Deep into my ear: ‘Your wife is dead.’


This poem was only just discovered, and published for the first time last week. This is a link to the news broadcast.