Waking Up


Thank God it’s a dream! I’m not
begging a subway token in the library
from a woman I’ve never met before,
then picking my way across a squelchy field
full of large unidentifiable geese
— or are they seals?— towards
the bus stop. I have not
lost my purse because I stupidly left it
under the table in the fast food place
when I went to order. Nor have I
explained myself patiently to my dead mother
one more time. And now the radio comes on
and the announcer announces someone’s Andalusia.
A violin plays and I’m thinking of
Gerry Shikatani and that special issue of
The Capilano Review called
“Three Gardens of Andalusia.”
I must find it— is it with the books
I packed away, or in a pile on the floor? Why
did I not introduce myself to him when
I had the chance, my head electric
with his talk? When he spoke of
“the way of writing” I found myself
thinking Why that’s my way, too. Perhaps
it is that simple. And so
I get up and write this poem of thanks.

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