From the Archive: John Nyman (CAROUSEL 38)

Staff/ March 27, 2021/ Poem


For My African Violet

Between oscillation and explosion,
an iris undone, your graceful fall

a flick so swift unhinged
and floating: sinkable,

the thrust of piling up
and the flutter of a tip

of a feeler frenzied wanting.
Let’s sally down my list:

the measurable handshakes,
a close furrow (grin

to a parasite), chores,
a strong caress sent to a friend

like you, so in a bright time
I’ll blow further on.

• • •

Always look at me like that,
with styrofoam winters in your teeth,
a firecracker hidden in your eye,
a snake track on the tile. While I

grow fat off alphabet salad, be there
moulding a tableau into shape.
Be there while I’m wafting the decisions
that bulldozed the fire,

propping each objection up
like a spinning plate. Don’t be afraid
to bury yourself in sunshine.

John Nyman is a poet and critic from Toronto. His newest chapbook is The Devil (knife|fork|book, 2020). More:

For My African Violet
appeared in CAROUSEL 38 (2017) — buy it here

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