9 Horton Road, Hackney, London
9 Horton Road, Hackney, London
Overwrought May, cobblestone
sticky with dry white petals and leftover sediment.
It was a housing swap. I traded buses,
rivers, borrowed Heather’s housemates,
her pink bedroom and lover’s photos.
Lived outside beginnings and endings, circled
daily from Hackney to London Bridge
for no reason, via #48, not speaking
to not be given away, away from
your speech our conversation
that we would not speak, I step past
and between conversations, eyes down,
am zipped backpack, no exposed pockets.
Bus lurches to its stop. I disembark.
Say in English, sorry sorry sorry.
Am I? No. I never am,
am I then, luve? Sorry.
And for what, and to whom?
Him or you?
Petals left in Portland,
letters traced on your borrowed back,
I don’t take back.
By Melissa Sillitoe
November 2009 / Portland
Ace of Pentacles
Ace of Pentacles
Almost unscientific, these readings,
when I scan your horizon for romance
and, yawn, your inevitable job,
You, me, 4 years of exposed stories
turned slowly, one at a time.
Right now, I read your cards
free from intent, but
what is this pause?
Your Final Outcome: ace of pentacles.
Beginnings, mutable earth,
each stable rotation circles. Virgo,
discernment and deviling detail. So why
do you kiss me?
I am ragged edges, maybe a two
of disks, maybe a two
of juggling, not anyone’s ace, maybe
the Star’s shadow, water poured out
pooling parched earth. Your lips
are cups, maybe two, maybe
two but these triangles
we call pentacles, these three
dimensional pasts spin sky
back to this moment signified
past and present and your
new shuffle. I don’t know anything,
my friend, not what floats above
your open hand.
By Melissa Sillitoe
June 2010 / Portland, OR
Dreaming Bears
He got me out. My dream bear,
our story, how I followed
his pine-strewn wake, my own
feet in his lotus dustprints.
I wanted momentum. And
direction, out of the thicket.
His lunge into bushes
ripe for my untangle,
his huge jaws on rodents
that I would dissect.
And each green time,
I crept behind
his twig-snap startle,
launching leaf storms,
wondering, would he turn
on me. Meanwhile,
safe in his unsafe
shambling, his broad shadow.
His pine-strewn wake
leaves a trail. Waiting his pivot.
By Melissa Sillitoe
March 2010 / Portland, OR
In Between
n between
And it’s true we named our children
after towns that we’d never been to,
and it’s true that the sky just hung around
like black cadillacs outside of view
and we were done done done
with all the circ circ circling round
–Modest Mouse
1
What’s wrong I missed it,
walking to our sunday cafe,
bewitched by Indian summer trees
their redgreen exhale
against usual sky no I lie
I don’t miss anything it’s a problem
not your glare your sighs
behind shared newspaper, yes love
I exaggerate don’t I
it’s a problem I
repeat my lines & remind
you look at me, look at me you
thrust inside me two hours ago
I am still moist from you
and fuck here we are, love. Fuck you.
This clock-face place
has no hands but tick tick ticks
second-hand orbits
does not fall
forward
welcome to eternity
pointed, pointless, whirring
staccato
prediction & careful edits
from cafe window,
slate tides advance and retreat,
afternoon frustrates–
gray-blue or blue-gray–
does it matter?
unhinged sky echoes
hum of last hinged
release poised between
now and then and back again
between present absence
and now
your absent presence
2
I meant that I always mean it
same lines, new scene,
inventing later’s shopping list
here where we fell
in love & created dramatic
tension here where sorry
did I step out of character? Well
we break up here. Again.
I did say what I mean I always
fucking mean it.
When you stride off stage
I’ll fall outside sky
mistake it for rain these
too many falls
& their curtain fall
reunions. Facebook spectacle.
By Melissa Sillitoe
December 2009 / Portland, OR
poem: Painting Water
Painting water
*
When color returned, not words,
I drove Oregon, let elms lead
past heartbreak ferns,
two-lane postcards,
moss-encrusted turns.
Slow silver currents,
mosquito-stained sea and sky.
Streets pool their gray
distance, 600 miles beyond
desert gods their heat
locust rattle beat
raw umber downpour.
In Oregon, water holds,
above and below.
*
Portland. Sunset wears pastel, tourists too.
We wear river’s palate:
espresso, charcoal, faded blue.
Write beneath dogpark
canopy. Forget ocean’s hyperbole,
unlikely promises, implied eternity,
add conjunctions, fake irony.
Oh, these clever clever trees!
*
Don’t say anything. I won’t believe.
That year, dumbstruck
on road’s shoulder, Oregon won.
Sea-light resists metaphors.
I mix chromatic black,
oblivion’s absence,
one ringing chord.
Dark’s light,
5 a.m. blues. Water.
Trees point up, purple ripe
in pregnant light.
I paint: almost, always.
By Melissa Sillitoe
January 2010 / Portland, OR
9 Horton Road, Hackney, London
9 Horton Road, Hackney, London
My house swap: 30 days in overwrought May, overripe
cobblestone sticky with sediment and dry white petals,
I traded rivers, didn’t I?, borrowed Heather’s housemates,
her pink bedroom and lover’s photos. I lived outside
beginnings and endings, circled daily
from Hackney to London Bridge
for no reason, via #48, upstairs. I have no story.
I make believe knowing where I am I am
no one’s, never with, and never alone,
eyes behind sunglasses or borrowed book I hold
my own American words–no one cares–
safe in notebook. Step past and between
conversations, zipped backpack, no exposed pockets.
Bus lurches to its stop. I disembark.
Say in English, sorry sorry sorry.
Am I? No. I never am,
am I then, luve? Sorry.
And for what, and to whom?
Him or you?
Petals traced with one finger,
letters left on your borrowed back,
I don’t take back.
By Melissa Sillitoe
November 2009 / Portland
poem: any green day unfolds pink
Maybe you’re right,
colorblind and right,
these indigo leaves
I call turquoise
are summerlit green. We guess.
At sundown, we’ll see true.
So, these roses we don’t choose,
we name their hues? Red?
I’ll tell you later. We pick
petals and thorns. Maybe.
Maybe I choose to believe.
And you’re right, camellias
bloom in an iris. We don’t show
what shuteyes hold. All I know:
what stays, eyes closed?
Stickybud twig, leaf to oak,
sparrowsong. Your birdbeat wrist.
Maybe I name sunlight.
Maybe I believe
white lies. I mean, I know
we’ll die. You know it, too.
Soon. Now: Eden!
What can we do? Goldedged
day falls from sky’s beak. Any
green day unfolds pink. All we need.
By Melissa Sillitoe
poem: miles later, I don’t know why I looked up
In a dark time, the eye begins to see
–Theodore Roethke
Eyes adjust to starless nights.
I don’t know why I looked up
somehow I began
leaving.
Clumsy sleepwalk
past dim-lit days
spent outside seasons,
let each clear night
convince. Yes,
daylight follows. Again. Still,
I might have looked down,
as usual, and missed it.
Autumn. My first.
No trick of light
that glowing ember sky
when one sunbeam
struck. It stuck.
Now, miles later, I don’t
know why I looked up.
No leaving-dark gust
shook leaves from me
when I caught fire.
Above, birdtrill
startled my dreams.
Gold fell
lavish
from open handed trees.
I know just this:
all I had was gone, all I
did not dare hope waited.
No. More. Trees,
where, everywhere,
bled for me, in spite of me.
By Melissa Sillitoe
poem: breaking surface
“i
broke the dream of surface-
and gasped for air-
i fell
awake-
and realized i was dying
when eyes no longer served as
metaphor.”–Rick J
Age six, still piscean,
water-coaxed and pixie-led,
bored on blue-tiled land,
inhaling chlorine and faith,
I first dangled
toes in deep:
what waited:
luminous
lukewarm
transparent sky.
Why resist?
I let go,
slipped beneath, fell
foot-first
past warning, applause.
So easy, that immense seduction,
my blue-tiled solid landing.
I could see, but no voice
buoyed daytime night.
Did I hold my breath?
The forbidden, heaven,
waited at my feet, and
god was not above, but beneath.
When rescue arrived,
navy trunks and outstretched arms,
I choked. The spell broke.
These days, I know how:
cautious surrenders,
my dead-man-floats.
I’ll close my eyes, mid-dive.
I’ll propel past unnecessary skies.
It doesn’t matter. I am still there,
nine feet above no control,
and now, treading water,
make-believing roots,
I dream of dissolve, not flight.
By Melissa Sillitoe
December 2008 / Portland, OR
poem: Stargazing at age 37
Tonight. So unromantic and farfetched, my friend,
stargazing in prickly allergenic grass, short walk
from cedar-scented campfire.
No blanket needed—we adapt.
And when cliche stars flicker, burn,
inevitable we ask:
does love burn, fall, smolder?
Yes, all the above. Love. I dare you.
Trace stories with your finger, these
words I won’t skywrite or say,
all we know of peril and rescue,
gourds that point true north. These
silver patterns that led us here, star by star,
not guessing tonight’s view,
so unlikely, impossible: light-year glow
illuminates tonight!
And they simmer,
constellations. However
sky tilts, I find them all.
There’s just one, one of each
one we love. Just one.
Do we wish when bodies fall? I do. Look up,
you know why we’re here, you know we
want this light. Don’t deny,
don’t deny, don’t deny. We fall, burn,
meteor-scarred from when sky fell last.
It is all, this silver, it is everything, lying back. This letting.
By Melissa Sillitoe
June 2007 / Portland OR
