Trebuchet
I don’t know much, but I know this:
the flow of wind through your hair just
before the brick wall is the best it gets.
I’m up and not crying, as the Norwegians
say. I’m perched on the wall’s edge like
a fat egg. Call it summer. Call it when
you have no one else to call. My friend
says the flaws in one’s poetry
are the flaws in yourself. That’s why
my poems sleep alone. They talk
too much. They don’t appreciate
how bad it could be.
*
Raised on a rice and catfish farm in eastern Arkansas, CL Bledsoe’s poetry collections include Riceland, and his newest, Banana for Scale, as well as his latest novel The Moon On My Back. Bledsoe lives in northern Virginia with his kid.
Beautiful poem.