from Report from the Pirie Society, Vol. 1 No. 1
This waiting hour had no
beginning–a scratch of key at the lock. Cold air flushes thru–
until fatigue bangles the
bones.
The ironies continued–because
I love you. If I didn’t, think–crisis isn’t part of all
episodes–until it becomes a
wince.
I am, you are, & we
conjugate ourselves into–its derivation with enough time–
blotches out steadiness,
leaves voice winded.
Think of me as a hoarse
whisperer, patient to a fault–instances will persist
for some–sense is as sense
does. Sense is as sense is made.
Resilience will be the
restructuring of re-silence–to burn it to ashes
in our mouths–snow. Hiccupping
& hip-downing, it sits, hics.
Grief. Being in grief is a kind of–for its necessity, trying.
Towards the light &
shallows–confounding–
(sp) urn this (c)rushing
onslaught.
It won’t do any harm.
All phrases lifted from the first section of Pirie’s The Pet Radish, Shrunken.
Sandra Ridley lives and writes in Ottawa, near the Kichi Sibi, on the traditional unceded territory of the Algonquin Anishnaabeg people.
