By R. Zamora Linmark
Is it the Garcia Lorca kind
faithful as a cricket's
tune about a boy fishing
in a pool of rainwater
for his lost voice
praying it'll sing back
so he can wear it
on his finger again
like a wedding ring?
Maybe it's the anti-parakeet
Nicanor Parra kind
remorseful as a memoir
that survived four wars
half a dozen sexually
transmitted depressions
insomnia-
inspired hallucinations
and a dedication to
its remaining readers
last count forty-five
asking them to burn each page
upon reading memories
it had tried to capture
unless it's the Paz kind
not Paz-be-with-you of olden
days difficult now
to digest Paz or any Zense
of peace without Belano or Bolaño
pearly-gate-crashing in an Impala
slingshooting saints out
of their poses harping
on angels reciting bad poetry
aloud anything to disturb
the last of the angry gods'
siesta atop a mountain of ashes
once rich without meaning.
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I don't have much to report from Tuesday apart from finished and folded laundries. We got some more snow overnight, I'm embarrassed to say how much because local schools were closed -- there are places in America that got serious, scary snowfall, but this was not one of them -- so there were lots of conversations with new neighbors while shoveling and getting the snow off the cars, though I only drove to the food store five minutes away, and my biggest purchase was a fuzzy fleece blanket for whose ownership my cat and I are currently competing.
Thanks to a generous streaming site, we watched the fourth episode of this season's Broadchurch, which I hear is not very popular in Britain but is making me bite my nails nearly as much as last season's; we also got to see the Colin Firth Jonathan Ross Show before The Flash and Agent Carter. We took a walk a little closer to dusk and saw two bunnies out in the snow foraging for food (I would feed them, but they run when we get too close and the squirrels snitch any food left out). Here are some photos taken last fall at the Richmond Metro Zoo:
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