Lately things are slipping through the gaps. Trying desperately to clear my overstuffed flat, I listed lots of things on ebay. A mistake. Underslept, uncomfortably warm, seven months pregnant and starting to become more dazzled and confused, I have posted things to the wrong people, made incoherent apologies, and ended up paying strangers to relieve me of unwanted gifts.
But no matter how we try to shape life according to our will, accident will always play a significant part. Maybe I should be grateful for the unexpected – how it loosens things, keeps me uncertain. Isn’t that a kind of freedom?
So I’m working on poems about accidents today. And trying not to set fire to anything.
This is a photograph that slipped off my shelves and fell into the printer. It was taken years ago on a solitary trip (the only solitary trip I’ve ever taken) to Montserrat. Is now accidentally overprinted with (an unedited) poem written to the ghost of Sylvia Plath*.
*Edited: Phhhhhhhhh, no it’s not. It’s actually a poem about Italian prisoners of war. I don’t think I should be trusted with sharp objects. Including keyboards.