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.
