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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 7, Number 2, June 2013

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Kath Abela Wilson
Pasadena, California, USA


Bouquet

Looking down through cloudy steam into my bowl of hot cereal: the scent of salt and a sea of a hundred fortunes. Small papers caught just below the surface, under a thin film. I rescue hundreds of short sentences that seem to endlessly reproduce. Layer after layer, enchanted, I pick them out, one by one. Snippets of thought. I clean them off; smooth them. Diligently put each in its place on the large whiteboard beside me.

the puzzle's blue edges
draw me
skywriting
of small dark birds
through morning mist

Onshore I have a sense of the depths. The echoing waves seem to be telling me all I never knew . . . over and over, as if I must not forget. I don't run from the waves, but let them wash off the sand. I imagine my walk turning outward toward the horizon. I feel the ocean floor through bare feet that just skim the surface. A certain dizziness and then smooth sailing, I am at home with the sky.

all the questions
I've ever heard
susurrus
my wet footsteps
begin to answer

Dry land, a half-century later, my wildflower hill waits, still weedless, my vacant lot covered with wild carrot. Near the top are high green hedges long overgrown. No one knows I'm almost home from school. Queen Anne's Lace . . . a bouquet. I jump to sit and view my sway from a high white wall at the end of the street.

I arrive from
there to here
squeezing through
I smell like mint
on both sides

Memories have no age, immediacy stuns us as the before and after merge with dreamlike assurance . . . pressed flowers we've collected.

we open the box
string them
across the page
each petal keeps
a subtle fingerprint

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