By Ingrid Keir
Poetry in between
the folded towels
on the comfy lounge chair.
A poem isn't worn
like a pair of red-bottomed Louboutin heels.
It's more like a process of removal—
the locus, the eye of the hurricane, door,
window, roof, ripped off until all that remains—
is you curled up in the empty tub of tenderheartedness.
An aftershock, a premonition
welcomed in all times: joy, sadness, grief.
It is beheld in the mundane—
the empty soap dish, the sponge in the sink,
the dreaded laundry pile.
The moon wraps her arms
around poetry, and rocks
her lullaby, the bliss of meter.
The solar flare, the neighbor's snore,
the glamor, the gloaming,
the horizon where the orange sun slips away.
Poetry pulls you out to the edges—
a place of dust and Saguaro,
octopus-eye, choppy waves, the humpback whale breach.
It is the brine of a Tomales oyster, down your throat.
The best poetry, leaves you speechless—
the silver sardines that move like starlings.
Sometimes it wakes you like flamenco castanets,
chatters rhythm, dances in your ear,
until you get up to scribble the lines down in the notebook—
while she sits in the corner and smiles,
crushingly satisfied with your undoing.
About the Author:
Ingrid Keir is a Sonoma county based poet. She runs Feather Press, an indie literary press. She is co-founder of the WordParty, a long-running San Francisco poetry and jazz series. Ingrid has organized numerous readings and been a featured reader at many diverse venues in the Bay Area. She has written several books: The Secrets of Like (2004), Toward the Light (2007) and The Choreography of Nests (2016). In 2016, she was shortlisted for the Litquake poetry contest, and in 2024 she won the International Turas d’Anam Samhain Poetry Contest. You can find more info at Ingridkeir.com