Last evening I:

sat for a while on the couch with B who lay on the pillow I:

held on my lap. He lay still while I:

examined his ear and hair and had really nothing to say (today I:

vacuumed). After this I:

roused myself and walked through a squall to the house in the public garden where I:

met K. We were there for the favorite poet. She was taking place in a wonderful place, a glass house with a glass roof festooned with glass flowers. Through the glass wall I:

could see a real bird perched on a branch of a glass tree and through the ceiling I:

could see the sky change from light gray to a darker gray that looked important above the orange I:

think they were poppies. It was glorious but I:

wasn’t overtaken as I:

wished I:

was. Before each intricate poem, the poet told a long story and I:

enjoyed everything. But afterwards, after too quick of a goodbye to K, I:

went walking quickly back through the dark park. Past the fountain, around the arena I:

found myself muttering about my hunger I:

had missed dinner I:

’m hungry I:

complained. Which point I:

reminded myself, “self, slow down” and “notice the night,” which was lovely and close, the old campus a pleasure to walk in in my nice brown pea coat and fleece lined boots. But here again I:

was unable to surrender. I:

was too trying to drown. By then I:

was home and still uncomfortable I:

tried eating only a little but that was a lot compared to the nothing I:

’d vowed.



Kary Wayson is the author of American Husband (2009, OSU Press) and Via Maria Materi (forthcoming in 2019, Burnside Review Press). She lives and works in Seattle.