The job that ends

By Wim Owe

Another day,
To press uneaten rice
Into a repurposed
Margarine tub,
Scrub between
The fork tines,
Invasive threads
Between teeth, 
Bleeding From 
Irregularity

What proves my lost 
time wasn’t lost,
And all that is simply 
passed around, 

Unmolded good-morning 
light of an unsentimental

future, watch me 
despise this page 
of a day, sealing

The food from
The night, spoon
Handles pointed
To the moon
From the drying
Rack, I practice 
what couldn’t
Possibly be 
my calling.

My science

Is not of mind,

Does not take

Steps

Toward

Any destination

But screams

Not here.


Wim Owe is a dual citizen from Seattle living in Victoria, BC. You may have met him in a moss-filled basement suite in Vancouver, a dust storm in northern Alberta, or perched atop a spinning curling rock in sweaty, sweaty Gatineau. He’s had poems in Pages Penned in Pandemic, Peaches and Bats, and Slightly West. For private opinions made inadvisably public, see him on Twitter.

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