LAATSTE STUK<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
In The New Yorker vond ik een gedicht van Catherine Bowman en dacht, toen ik m’n laatste stukje wilde tikken, zo was het schrijven voor dit blog twee maanden lang.
\nAls praten aan de telefoon tijdens de afwas.<\/p>\n
She loves to talk on the phone
\nwhile washing the dinner dishes,
\ncatching up long distance or
\ndealing with issues closer to home,
\nthe reconnoitring with the long lost
\nor a recent so-and-so. She finds it
\ntherapeutic, washing down
\nthe aftermath. And that feeling
\nshe gets in her stomach with a loved one’s<\/p>\n
prolonged silence. And under the sink
\nin the dark among the L-pipes, the confederate
\nsocket wrenches, lost twine, wire lei,<\/p>\n
sink funk, steel-wool lemnisci, leitmotifs
\nof oily sacraments, a broken compass forever
\npointing southeast by east, mold codices,<\/p>\n
ring-tailed dust motes from days well served,
\na fish-shaped flyswatter with blue horns,
\nfermented lemures, fiery spectres,
\nembottled spirit vapors swirling in the crude<\/p>\n
next to the Soft Scrub, the vinegared
\nand leistered sealed in tins, delicious with saltines,<\/p>\n
gleaned spikelets, used-up votives. . . .
\nIn the back in the corner forgotten<\/p>\n
an old coffee can of bacon fat
\nfrom a month of sinful Sundays,<\/p>\n
a luna moth embossed, rising–a morning star.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"