The precise place of finding
was in dreaming.
We all dream of the light
falling just on us,
of finding the lost child.
The sweet disorder of my mind
spins me into my own spaces.
I stretch my arms and run.
It seems as though this joy
will swallow all I did not want to be.
I lift my breasts after a shower,
laugh at being a woman
and feel my belly firm
after forty six years of living
and sex on Saturdays.
I want my life to be meniscus full
and if a single drop spills
I will carry it away to a secret place
and bathe in the overflow.
Jorie Ryan (from ‘Fallen Angel’)
sandpaper folded round the block
and bumps and scratches rubbed away
in a slow circularity, no beginning,
no end. And then the washing off,
other lives and squanderings
reduced to specks gathered in a rag
and flicked into the garden.
A wall presents itself
patched and peeled,
persistent in its being wall,
waiting for restoration.
The tin is opened and pearlised paint
smooth as cream is stirred and stirred
small waves and ripples
threatening to overflow the edge,
no shape except itself, still free,
a state of expectation. The day
is freshly opened and passes down
an unknown track. There are even birds
calling as they fly into the labour
of their morning.
The brush fills with paint and stroke on stroke
the wall travels into a light clearing space,
stains revoked like unanswered crimes
no longer kept account.
On and on until the afternoon
and another valley found and filled,
paint settling into wholeness with the wall
till both are one
and something new is waiting.