POETRY | Claressinka Anderson He Sends Me Blue Mountains, a Field

POETRY

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.

It would be better if we were together right now, I say— We’re melancholy anyway, he replies, so at least we’d get to be drunk.

Don’t ever let me become someone you’ll need to forgive, I think. For now, I keep my mouth shut. We both know how sweet it is to follow those perfidious crumbs.