11
P OE T RY
He Sends Me Blue Mountains, a Field By Claressinka Anderson
—in the painting we are running somewhere towards a hole where all the people we need to forgive sleep, burrowed below their grim winter grasses, furry they are— we go to pet them, Sorry, we say, we’re late in our forgiving. Come out, come out, we promise our version of the witch is friendly. * I’ve never had a four-hour friend, I mean one I can bear talking on the phone with for that long—Dry January, he tells me. Sure, I say, cocktail in hand. It’s hour four in the witch’s house— probably best for me not to drink.
