In this mood, I could
write an ode
to a chamber pot.
Could I sing a low dirge
to green spotlights
in the earth
that tickle leaves?
To fluff on a puddle’s
wrinkled surface,
to painted monkeys who sit
in tidy waistcoats
cross-legged, perplexed,
what can be said about the grief
of those sad, elegant creatures?
Remembering and forgetting
and remembering:
Even the dust sings in its corners.
This poem is from the chapbook Diaspora of Things by Jill Pearlman (Finishing Line Press), and can be found at https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/diaspora-of-things-by-jill-pearlman/
Jill Pearlman’s poems explore ecstasy in the decentered world and self. Originally from Pittsburgh, she has lived in New York, Paris and French Catalonia. Her poems wander the world as impatient travelers, reflecting voices of fluidity and transcultural values. She studied art history, worked as a music and arts journalist in New York and is the mother of two superb daughters.
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