Wish I’d been able to make it live to this week’s meeting, looking forward to watching the recording during the week.
Still working on something sparked in Week 1, so I’ve got another tweaked piece from that same poetry pop-up.
Wine drunk at their wedding in Italy, husband says to wife:
Feels wrong to say that now, surrounded
by all these spectral remnants of death, is
the happiest I have felt across my entire
calendar until I remind myself
the ghosts in every castle are
every one of them holy
in the land of popes.
The ones in this specific castle
the holiest of all: our own, born from
past and present happinesses.
Like us, here to celebrate
with a brisk jaunt and a stiff
drink and million minute
hugs and dances out of time.
Unlike us, never tripping tanglefoot,
never falling down nosecrunch.
I envy them spirits with their cawbird gander
of the festivities. Wonder how they can absorb
all this joy but never get overwhelmed by the specter
of ebullient unrestraint.
Maybe our offsprung phantasms
feed the energy back to us.
Route the electric
into every eye link between lovers.
Or maybe they are spiritual adrenaline
suspended in air and maybe,
if we breathe deep enough,
years from now we will be able to channel
the braintingle recollection of crumbling castle,
of handrolled pasta, of Technicolor waterfront,
into any moment we want.
Command these compiled corny crumbs be ready
to be summoned into service
as long as wherever I am
is where you are.