I want to move to the country to write real poems. Name the natural world again as poets do, believing themselves godlike arbiters of language. Anyone can create words for nest, loss, the guilty imposter.
I want to move seaside and write in ancient rhythms, words building like the waves that brought my Irish ancestors to shore, stumbling from steerage, blinded by light. I've always loved the poetic sound of Galway. A beauty that did not fill bellies.
Or live in Quebec, wander the shoreline of La Gaspesie picking up shells, stones. Write in cafes, flirting in French with anyone who will forgive, or at least forget, the blood on my country's, on my, hands.
To the desert red and raw, minimal and prehistoric. To stark images in sharply trimmed lines, pruned with aching with the urge to dance for water, reach for fruit.
To the Caribbean where evening falls like sunrise. Where trees and birds flower before you, Island music rocks you into a waking nap. To touch another in early sun. Wordless. Windblown flesh joined in moist air. Cresting.
