Clade Song 2

grieving you, I
protected the idea of the dog
caught flies in a jar, held it to my ear,
cried on the grass, cried on the grass,
boiled water, walked round the lake, held
my tears, leaning against the stove
dreamed of a woman
from India (who was that woman
who left her child like a dog
wrapped up in a rug by the stove?)
slept so long I bent my ear
to your song often withheld
read:  invaded  cried like a child in the grass
even in the sun the grass
was cool the woman
I wanted (how often you withheld
her) I begged like a dog
pressed my ear
to the air.  the stove
sang your praises that is the stove.
Cut the grass
with scissors (as if to cut off my ear
for the sake of a woman
who helped me bury a dog.)  That’s the story.
There is nothing to withhold.

but and this is where the contradiction lies

this film is not about its maker

the first hint of

Glancy Gabrielle Glancy’s work has appeared in The New Yorker, The American Poetry Review, The Paris Review, New American Writing and many other journals and anthologies. She is just beginning to wake up from a hundred year sleep in which she continued to write but stopped publishing. Her eyes have become accustomed to the dark.