By Jordan Williamson
Suddenly, a lot of people have the tiny pebbles
of their birth to remember, or back into like a tray of brochures.
You’re doing it wrong, making a lot of noise
in the process. Being what it was, the lone light nearly gone
to assure what would become improved by its absence.
What is that word, “litho?” It turned over, got boxed
up and sent to Neuilly to brush up on its French. The house smells
of it. “Don’t leave hungry,” it says. How about this? We skip them.
A cloud drifted over the tower because it was different
from the others. There is already too much going on.
A tree of piñatas breezed by; it was commonplace in this terroir
or at least it felt that way for a while until something else
came storming in to demand its’ just due. A piece of thread,
a cheese sandwich. For once, it got better. All healed up.
Jordan Williamson is a writer and poet from London, Ontario. His work will feature in the upcoming issue of Huron and Erie Regional Digest. His writing explores themes of intimacy, memory and the innate generosity of language. He believes the best poems are like trying on a new outfit; they are for enjoying the familiar surprise of your own image.