Poem by Bibi Deitz

Everything: this.

This: two candles burning on the lip of an old letter-writing desk, a sleek laptop perched on its fold-out plank, the modern and the ancient together as one in Brooklyn in the most current moments of life just after reviewing photographs from the past eight years. Ignoring some phone calls and answering others. Eating yogurt with a blanket of honey on a winter afternoon. The softest music played loudly. Muttering Goddamn it’s so good when one song or another comes on. Turning it even louder, ever louder. Putting off a shower to write. Soft light in a garret room. Urban snow on every rooftop. Boots muffled, concrete sidewalks. Drinking cup after cup of Earl Grey. Four beverages in the bath. Fortune: Give forgiveness, that is your greatness. Making use of a hurt foot for solo quiet. Silent counting breaths on a cushion on dark wood-planked floor. The friendship of women. And the not-friendship of other women, inventorying and tossing aside what no longer works with an open mind and good grace. Waking to surprise baroque played at just the right loud volume through the walls from the apartment next door. Sunshine, so it’s nice to be awake. Living with a black lab; writing with one hand so as to have my other on her coat. Memory: The time we were lost and almost slept in the woods, until a mystery caballero appeared on his horse and rode us out to safety. A brief feeling of wondering whether a certain person Googles me followed by the deep and reassuring knowledge that it doesn’t matter either way. A medium-sized phone call with a sage woman. On toward half-night and the candles still burning, soft music softer now. To eat papaya or drink lavender tea or listen to certain songs. Curtains drawn. Little carrier pigeons of texts bringing messages of good tiding or grace. Murmuring Goddamn it’s so good late at night in bed with you. Music ever softer. The solidity of good fortune. Receiving love only when love is receivable (which is to say when one is open to it). Memory: When we danced all night in Diablo Canyon under a full moon and clear sky. Dried apple slices. The persistent memory of the corner of Hudson and West 12th Street. Fortune: Patience pays.
This day: A fog finally lifted, after days of slogging along.

21 thoughts on “Poem by Bibi Deitz

  1. There’s a wonderful universality to coming in for a landing, sitting down in a room with tea and music and a dog and poetry and stillness. A lovely evocation. Reminds one to stop flitting about in the sun and it is time to come in, sit down, listen, write.

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