We are pleased to welcome Erika Jo Brown, who will be reading at our August 1st Library Reading Series event. She has agreed to share some of her work with us in advance of the event.
Somewhere, an actual balloon floats into the horizon
of a Midwestern town. I know that because I see it.
Everyone is sad. I know that because I talk to people.
Smart people are good at schematizing sorrow
in ravishing models. Somewhere, the whale-like
thrumming of French hip-hop thrums. Someone
has left a tissue in their pocket that sneezes
all over the new load of wash. General fruit
is not appealing, but three young apricots before
you, well. Please accept this half-ditty, half-prayer.
For once, it’s not pity I’m after, just beauty.
There is no transaction like this. Forgive
my being forward at the end—rain hitting
a pane, canary-yellow, chai. Try it with me now.
Sometime in the winter of our lives,
I was all about tillage. An operation,
a practice, an art of little trenches.
Tell me about it. The season provided
its best sledge. I had not one pretty
tile to tickle me, with the exception
of a Turkish repro, from Israel actually.
A gift from my father. These lacks were
tugging, as tilapia does a line alive.
My ticker was rendered pointless, more
or less. There was a sadness no leopard
could dispossess. But for the repetitive
ticks of a tractor I heard this summer.
This is my Monday sad day triage
poem. My sad cabbage in Monday
pottage poem. Sounds from an acreage,
like a made-up plot device. Like a
sparkly beverage. From a crow’s eye,
there is no progress. Love’s test
is actually a common everlasting native
to eastern North America. Things like
this. The spillage and the mileage. The
carriage through these blah blah blues.