Strange Useless by Christina Olson

Nothing packed yet. Not the books
we have to divide a year after
we merged and categorized,

not the dog I can’t bear to be
without or take from you. Love,
if this shit is growing up

then I say let’s give it back.
Let’s be six again, and no playing
doctor, please. Instead meet me

in the ravine behind
your old house. We’ll clash
sticks turned guns. Or meet me

in Carolina, dazed from my fall
down steps icy from the first snow
in ten years. Meet me through blood,

in scar. Back even further,
back to the year that our respective
parents thought marriage would change

your father’s silence, my mother’s
drinking; back to my grandparents
bumping in the dusty rose hallway

of a boarding house on East Avenue;
back to the day my Norwegian
great-grandfather met his love

in the logging town where you
would grow up. Back back to the day
the stars were born, when one exploded

in the sky and the other one said,
Me too, and then: yellow, so hot
it’d burn our eyes. If we even had any.

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2 responses to “Strange Useless by Christina Olson

  1. Thanks again for this, PoetSpeak!

  2. like it, Christina…a feeling of inevitable separation from the start, but not jaded….rather engrossed in the feeling, albeit negative…almost detached…comforted that the same feeling has come to you from all those who lived before
    (try reading it with a breath between stanzas: “…when one exploded/(breath) in the sky..”)

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