Two poems
kate l'Heureux
 


25 minute ghost


most of the time
when something itches
it will disappear again
with time by itself
without any sort of
return action needed
(from you)
 
 


stone soup

 
What of my future self is inside me right now. Waiting.
A caterpillar has its future butterfly parts hidden
rolled up thin inside its small body waiting.
 
What you think you are now
you will not be
in a few minutes.
 
I am
everything already rolled up inside myself.
Everything is rolled up inside.
Me. Waiting for the right time to be used
or not used at all. Oriental rugs all waiting
to be dusted.
 
Stretching against the ground my ribs
touch
the floor
a steady pressing weight holding them in perfect order.
I breath and imagine myself holding everything inside
perfectly waiting for the right moment to breath again
and let the right parts go. Let everything that needs to get out
Out.
 
Nothing is ever meant to stay the same.
 
I am holding my arm up to my eyes so I can stare
at the sun hard.
Still doubtful. But closer?
 
Breath back again and fold together carefully
        not ready yet not
        for that one
I rub the spot under my collar bone
above my left breast
with the palm of my hand
for comfort.
 
Caterpillars do it and we can’t even ask them if it’s painful for them too.
 
You and I are black goo and future parts melting together
one big stew stirred by a lady
wearing a brown apron standing alone by the fireplace.