I guess it’s about what keeps coming back.
I never wanted to be someone who just waits

for time to pass. I wait out the rain
under the maple tree, circle the trunk searching

for the sweet spot. I have to push back
against the notion of a year –despite the storms,

the squash, nothing returns. I confess
I’ve been chilling out mainly by watching videos

of chinchillas, and dumplings in the process
of being folded, round and soft, ringed with pleats.

Wouldn’t you rather not keep track? The lightest
I ever felt: in the moment of leaving,

of running away. The trick is to cut out the past,
or to fold time around it: purse it, pleat it,

keep it contained. The round sign above the liquor store
is as familiar a glow as the moon from my room. If I lean

too hard into my own desire, it’s like an out of body
experience, surgery, an ice bath. I encounter old friends

while thrifting for jeans, run out of talk after two sentences.
Entering the part of the year where rain hovers

above the ground and herons ghost the highway.
I’d like to say nothing’s ending,

but this season reminds me of the dust devil
I drove through once on the highway. Too small tornado,

bigger than a breeze, and me, on the phone,
crying about nothing to someone, only realizing

what I went through after I left it,
in the mirror, driving away.

Carolyn Supinka

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