ditch,

the poetry that matters

Amy Oldfield

Amy Oldfield is an Ottawa native, and currently living in London, Ontario and attending Western University. Her work has appeared in Symposium.

 

   

Novelty Wears Off

 

For one whole year I

watched movies all day

just to switch the score, Repeating

noodle strings and cold

brass throats that

coughed in winter;

 

Just to think about it is enough

by the time a season starts to play

I’m bored of it already

and of my

DVD case soul, a

plastic snap shut shelf

addendum, a vellum

spine with other pretty spines

in numbered letters

 

(a hole between two is

insig

nifi

ca

n

t)

 

the world they say it

operates in revolutions,

round-a-bouts and fractious

patterns: I Howl

at the moon- Genetically-

wrist veins snake route 66

deep throat the easy, salty ocean

spit

            it

                        out!

 

All the worlds your clam bake

your oysters dead- said:

See ya later!

left you in your sick print

silk print lobster stripes,

cannibal bib to match,

and naturally you licked it up

stood atop the shells with rubber

soled boat shoes-

telling me with your country

cornfed mouth, all about

s u s t a i n a b i l i t y

 

 

 

 

  

 

Famous September

 

 

Crab apples coughed onto the ground,

September flashing past

a train window mural, your ring side

seats to the world:

 

They never found Hemingway’s suitcase-

love sick librarians lament,

sunset bruises imaginary on their cheeks,

shaking out their sadness, towel wet

with love Utterly Unasked for-

 

there is no room for me inside myself

the world so heavy, caught up

in my atmosphere

 

If I could rabbit-hole inside

my soul I would, but there’s no air

I can my mind but oxygen is thin

up there I choke on my own lungs

Wanting ruins what you want:

learn not to trust your rotting

human brain

            [will tell you anything.]

 

When you live to haunt its time to leave

to Belarus or anywhere

to someplace the papers call a

shame, with stray dogs on the beaches

 

when the wheel-pick up-cycle-fall

breaks down colourless and desperately

genuflecting on and on

on dirty knees and holy jeans

it’s time to leave-

 

and soon you’ve lost

the world

forever.

 

 

 

                                                                                                            January 12, 2014