By Matt Robinson
This booklet is ready reminiscence -- reminiscence as a poetic shape by which refractions of loss, restoration, discovery and identification shape an inventive reshaping of the earlier. In uncooked brushstrokes, Robinson files the gradual cascade of occasions and characters slipping throughout the skinny membrane of expertise, shaping our histories. whilst, he experiments with kind and shape in a perfectly sinuous writing. With this, his first booklet, Robinson makes a magnificent debut at the North American literary level.
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From "A Short Film" by Ted Hughes it was not meant to hurt, as such, that ritual departure, no, it was instead a release: a place for tears and words and suits; a cause for dressing up the ties and cuffs an awkwardness become physical. it had been made for happy remembering — that black, that stone, that monument to and of the earth that you'd become, now physical, chiselled, and polished: a monochromatic, and so, by people who were still too young to think themselves a cargo, (something other than the mingled sweat and breath of late-night dance and drinks), you were carried on.
I'd asked you last night if i could call and change your ticket, and you said the idea of marriage scared you some days. so even though i don't normally get up much before noon on Saturdays, we went downstairs and waited for your cab. and afterwards, in my room, taking off my sweater that you'd returned, i fell back into the mess of our bed, found your sports bra — reached and breathed you in — then grabbed my mug and made instant coffee, watching the microwave timer count down. b. now, in hindsight, it's quite obvious it was never really mine to begin with; it was only another temporary situation, a sort of holding pattern, a cataloguing, and really, that first signature should have been enough to let us both know that, that, perhaps, presents aside, it wasn't — that giving isn't — always permanent, that things change hands, and so those first, perhaps, most interesting, of all the words contained within are there — inside the cover; in a fine hand, written, and the cover, too, is a kind of hint: black, finely tooled and gold-embossed; almost casket-like for all intents and purposes, it was a gift from a time when such things were commonplace, in fact, there are even dead blooms and other ironies folded between the pages, but despite all that, it has aged better than you, than us.
So in the yellowgrey of early morning, in the winter-furnace hum, i observe the state of water as it dies in piles along the street, and in this light try to convince myself that the chemistry of memory is permanent. minutes pass, snow falls, my shoulders ache in anticipation, something in me below the clavicle seems to say it's better to let storms blow, let walks disappear. that sometimes it's better if we wait it out, if we don't recall graves. 56- a comforting archaeology, this that's the tough part, take the bed, the other half, for instance.