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.
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.