I spend my days groping for the latch of a closed door – Henry James
Blog
oh canada
this country is a glamour
imposed upon the forest
bag o’ baby shoes
![](https://annewalk.me/wp-content/uploads/2022/06/6783E172-AC7B-48AA-88D1-BBFE0236C2AF-768x1024.jpeg)
primary palette
I like the idea of limiting the number of words in a poetry collection in the way a painter limits a palette. A vocabulary made of basic words. Words repeating, showing up in multiple poems, shifting in meaning, standing in for complex thoughts, experiences, memories. Private metaphor. Memoir in code.
A spoon, a bird, a pie, a chesterfield.
late to the party
![](https://annewalk.me/wp-content/uploads/2022/06/regret-1024x533.jpg)
lemon
I
peered into the meringue
of his
mouth
stiff peaks sticky
on my tongue
*experiment with mixing text at Language is a Virus*
my sweet
you are lollipop
you are sugar
kiss you are
moss you are
the rain has my heaven,
and all this is picture to the rainbow
*using a variety of tools at Language is a Virus*
butterfly flits lightly
![](https://annewalk.me/wp-content/uploads/2022/06/Screen-Shot-2022-06-07-at-8.19.14-PM-1024x829.png)
amuse-bouche
A restaurant in an airport parking garage, ornate as a gilded jewelry box. Seats one. There is no need for a maître d’. The cook stands before a single flame, hands you a dish. It’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted and you have no one to describe it to.
marks over time
I don’t remember how
I got the scar on my
right thigh shaped like
the forced smile I give
distant relatives who
motion me in for a hug.
look at this instead
![](https://annewalk.me/wp-content/uploads/2022/06/IMG_3052-1024x768.jpeg)
what’s worth saving
hands palm
like magician’s coins
the bags
of day
old bread.
the dangers of parataxis
I once attended a reading that was novel/engaging. The poet read rapid-fire. All of the images were startling and my synapses fired nonstop. Later, trying to recall the poems, I felt like this raccoon trying to wash cotton candy.
bees for lashes
I dreamt that bees surrounded me and no one would come near. I was convinced I had become their queen. I felt powerful and lonely.
It turned out, their real queen had landed on my back and they were, in fact, surrounding her.
I was merely lonely.
told you so
I make promises I know that I can’t keep, but I make them anyway, believing in a future where they come true and I am vindicated by their happening
obits
We used to write obituaries and submit them to the local paper. Now we post a tweet, upload a Facebook video, sepia filtered, text overlayed, guitar strumming softly in the background.
This is still love.