Katherine Spadaro: Three Poems

Falling Asleep with a Clean Pillowcase

The pillow case is murmuring,

“I remember, I remember—

guess what I remember:

the washing line,

the backyard,

the sun stacking shadows;

the sleeping dog

sloth-sucked to the lawn,

the troupe of unchased pigeons;

the neighbour mowing a duet

with the muffled postman’s bike;

the wind coaching clothes to dance,

their arms peg-held;

bees nuzzling the gum tree,

a school bell calling far away..

I remember all these things

were there and then,

and here.”

Katherine Spadaro

Advice to Authors

Strive for clarity—

for purity of impulse

wedding word with intention—

simple as glass unstained, like water

held in a trembling frame:

all limpid, no turning,

honest as gravity.

Seek for transparency;

edit yourself

ruthlessly.

And do this also

in your writing.

Katherine Spadaro

Patience

The boulders on the beach

have a stroked solidity, like well-kneaded dough

sitting on the tray, soon to bake.

Curved and quiet, they are all

roundness and waiting contained,

small bumps on their hugging surface—

dappled to touch, in a setting of sandy crumbs.

My life is fast, broken minutes, all quick questions: why

do you wait? They stay and stay, saying little,

curled in stout certainty that their crusts will break,

one day, the end of everything.

Katherine Spadaro