Leftovers
For years I’ve been editing winter.
The rain, inaccurate. The sea,
acres of unwrapped water and nowhere
to find you,
even when I settled for finding you
in other people’s coats
or move-abouts or late-night drunken
weather. Now I know
enough of winter to never
get it right. The season of failed forecasts,
recurring like a ritual,
as if seasons return only
to leave us
with the study of unsteadiness
and repetitions.
Sometimes I throw flat stones into the water,
to hear them hurt the sea.
On other days
I find the pathway to your winter, like in a kitchen,
open white cupboards and
close them, open and open the fridge.
'Leftovers' © Stav Poleg. ‘Leftovers’ first published in South Bank Poetry #19 (2014). Reprinted by kind permission of the author.
For years I’ve been editing winter.
The rain, inaccurate. The sea,
acres of unwrapped water and nowhere
to find you,
even when I settled for finding you
in other people’s coats
or move-abouts or late-night drunken
weather. Now I know
enough of winter to never
get it right. The season of failed forecasts,
recurring like a ritual,
as if seasons return only
to leave us
with the study of unsteadiness
and repetitions.
Sometimes I throw flat stones into the water,
to hear them hurt the sea.
On other days
I find the pathway to your winter, like in a kitchen,
open white cupboards and
close them, open and open the fridge.
'Leftovers' © Stav Poleg. ‘Leftovers’ first published in South Bank Poetry #19 (2014). Reprinted by kind permission of the author.
