All September, this city swathed in rain, sorrow has
prospered in the damp air and all the things we have
broken, we cannot put back: not like this monsoon
sky that will reset itself, no scratch, no seam, leaving
us to wonder — if we imagined all the grey mornings
after all the stormy nights, if touch, too, was a dream,
if water was an affliction, if detachment came from
the separation, or fastened itself to the silence (tiny
spores of colourless indifference, growing on a forever
bed of contoured waiting) — if in the molten dark, we
reached to wipe the washed light from the face of the
moon, skin brushing skin, strangers, in the silvery wet?
I was writing a set of “City Poems” last year that was supposed to organically grow into a chapbook of some sort. Of course, 2020 effectively destroyed all creative mind space and everything seems to be on some kind of endless pause. Somehow, from that muscle memory or from a sense of foreboding, this poem has emerged into the light. From comments and discussions, I can tell several poets are struggling to write. One left a message on my blog today that she hoped to be inspired to write again. This is probably the best thing we can do for each other – hope someone finds some words and hope those words will help us find ourselves.