LeVack Block, Anansi Poetry Bash

Caucasian woman, with curly dark hair, wearing a black suit, turquoise scarf and turquoise bracelet. She's a tiny force as she takes the stage. She's quiet and gracious. And she'll wrench you.

Chameleon Hours, Elise Partridge (House of Anansi Press)

Page 27:

From "Buying the Farm"

A little folding of the hands to sleep —
straw hat tipped over my nose,
I’m dozing to the lilac’s inquisitive wrens;
you, your spade flung aside,
sprawl, just starting to snore.

It’s curtains for us,
clasping hands behind the dusty, still-swaying swag —
at last these doublets can come off,
the swipes of rouge and sideburns, then we’ll stroll
to greet the flashing city with our true faces.

She stood in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil. The high rise view stretched across the lake to the next major city. Spring was here, just enough that the window could be left open morning and night. A train was coming. It would soon pass by, through the trees, past the schoolyard, maybe a hundred cars long if they were lucky. In the next room, they felt each other's bellies. Mine. Yours. 80 and 30, connected by an intrusive mass. The kettle whistled. She rinsed the pot, dropped in the bags, and poured the water. Civil now, but come winter she'd watch the pot crash in an exhausted heap in the parking lot.