Notes Towards Something Nearly Allegorical
The ground, clay heavy, follows you across the field because you carry it,
caught in your tread, grey and mottled with the aftermath of a hobby harvest:
the stalks of sunflowers mummified, light as bird bones.
You arrive at the back of the property, your feet scraping equine
on the unmowed grass behind the house. There is the house again
in miniature, in stone, and you go inside.
Sitting in the centre of a room shrine-turned and freshly so,
you reach into the viscera of a dust green duffle,
passing your hands over.
When you leave, you’ll pull yourself out of the valley
to the tune of a few hours’ hitchhike,
moving at an odd-digited limp, carried
onward by the skin of your thumbs.
Notes Towards Something Nearly Allegorical Also
You’re in it: umbilical building reaching toward the day’s membrane,
a thin container of amniotic sky.
You’re rising, looking out onto a spread of city that pivots on its own logic,
a compulsive Rubik’s flicker shifting nearer a more reasoned end.
You’re still and standing, letting leverage go through the motions
that confirm your winging upward, box-bound, untoward.
Aiming from everywhere, light passes through what it can,
sifting particles to say with authority what is solid.
The lines below won’t tell you much as you try to determine
which directions will cleave cardinal, and move the magnet of you.
Glass never forgets how it began: viscous, easily blown open.
Suzannah Showler lives and writes in Toronto. Her writing has appeared or will soon in The Walrus, Toronto Life, The Bull Calf Review, CV2, and Ottawater, and she is a regular contributor to Torontoist.com. She is currently completing her M.A. in English in the Field of Creative Writing at the University of Toronto. She collects narratives about lost objects at Art of Losing.