A little rain. Researching plovers, lapwings,
sandpipers and allies. Last February, 18 ibis
escaped the zoo. When I think of them in flight
I imagine the ways the earth rushes up to meet me too;
swings, skydiving, wine. Refill the coffee pot. Let whistle
the kettle. Let the light leave the apartment, come afternoon.
Come clouds, or bad weather. Consider the strangeness
of a life without electricity, of the phrase: I let the light out
of the apartment, as if I had anything to do with its coming,
its going. From the wall, ten Mozarts watch me write.
It’s evening and the light is not returning. I turn on the lamp
with you on my mind. The way the light was in your hair
under the cherry tree. How when I left you said
to write everything, even the things I thought
I’d never forget. I’m doing it. I’m getting better.
It’s been days since I heard from you.
That’s helping too.
Alison Braid is a writer from Summerland, British Columbia, who currently teaches kindergarten in Prague. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in CV2, Room Magazine, Poetry Is Dead, and The Maynard.