Carol Casey – 2 poems

Interruptions


I hate interruptions, covet the easy, flowing saunter 

down paths of word and image after a prey easily lost, 

a muse that can shatter like a mirror, leaving only wall. 


And there you are.


the next unwelcome chunk of my destiny, a foot stuck out,

a tree limb fallen. Lost, lost to whatever the moment

demands, the muse dissolves like a flock of startled geese. 


Some days I snarl.


Other days I try to see you, not as demon, but buddha, 

christ-child, goddess nudging my path with a gift among 

the shattered trance-fragments: of love, of letting go to find the more.


Most days it’s somewhere in between.

🍃

After the Party 


A mild hangover 

hangs over the room.


What sparkled is stale,

 forlorn. The sadness


of gathering up congeals 

on plates, Fragments 


of conversation erupt 

from blotchy wine glasses. 


Serviettes wilt in corners

like discarded wedding 


gowns. Someone left a 

scarf behind, as if wanting 


another chance. Forks laugh 

with knives, chat with dish

 
water. Stains are laundered

pure, as if never known.


Nameless yearnings 

sweep up off the floor


and into the compost

pail with a sigh.

🍃

Carol Casey lives in Blyth, Ontario, Canada.  She is a member of the Huron Poetry Collective and the League of Canadian Poets. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and has most recently appeared in Fresh Voices, The Prairie Journal, Synaeresis and Plum Tree Tavern (upcoming) as well as in two new anthologies, Tending the Fire, and i am what becomes of broken branch. 

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