in the middle of things

The Enchanted Hunter

My love was a woodcutter.

I sang him while he wished my skin pale,
whispered fleshly feller buncher.

I longed for him from in the forest
where he wouldn’t see me. I pined.

We worked our agon by the burned river,
moths applauding down my blouse-front.

When he was mine
I threaded lines through eyelet guides.

The padlocked tackle box.
The boys with their fly rods.

My love was jailbait.

+++++

What a week. I got my copies of the Fall 2007 issue of the Michigan Quarterly Review in the mail today. I have poems published within the same cover as Milosz! I’ve been plodding my way through some more poem writing, thinking about running a 5K in Greenville on Saturday morning, and am just beginning the preliminary stages of a letter-writing project, the concept of which sprung from the realization that I was out of toothpaste . . . more details to come on this later.

This afternoon I headed up to Malaprops bookstore in Asheville to get started with work on a Hub City/Malaprops collaborative series of interviews with writers who are visiting the region. I swung by the fabric store to get lavender thread to finish working on my dress for Brad and Sara’s wedding on Saturday night, and I’m running a creative writing workshop/discussion tomorrow afternoon at USC Upstate. I haven’t had too much time for reading, but have been working through McSweeney’s 24 and just began The Portable Dorothy Parker as well as Ferlinghetti’s Poetry as Insurgent Art.

Also, I can’t stop thinking about The Science of Sleep. The logic behind Stéphane and Stéphanie’s emotions seems to operate under the same curlicued convolution with which Gondry approaches basic physics and the presumed linearity of time. Plus all of the beautiful objects that are not-so-hidden in the subtext. Plus the strange dreams I’ve been having.

“What’s the point. You’ll just want me as your friend and then you’ll have a really nice boyfriend and that . . . that’ll kill me.”