They don’t know why to lump it means to put up with
something
but they know roughly when it began. Nimbus was the last
cloud name to arrive. In the beginning there was cirrus,
stratus and cumulous, the latter of which fell from
my child’s mouth the other day. I picked it up and
held it like a gift. There was a time when a pastel
hair rinse took women by storm. Then there was another.
I’d like a cloud to descend and contain me until everything
about me could change. About the hexagon there is
I think something French. Thoughts such as these would
get all rearranged. Or I could be conveyed briefly out
of my life via pneumatic tube. I wonder if, when
the plane lifted him up Orville could feel himself
disappear from the beautiful map. I don’t know where
comfort comes from, but I wish it to you in true
abundance. Its colours I suspect are blue, green, and gold.
Heather Christle is the author of four poetry collections, most recently Heliopause (Wesleyan University Press). Her first work of non-fiction, The Crying Book, has just been published by Catapult Books.
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