From the Undemanding Notebook

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It’s November. Prepare for all the ways to fall down —
in darkness, on ice. It’s November like a box of clouds

with a slowly closing lid. Clouds in your lungs
cough, clouds over your eyes. The warm cloud

of your bed muting the outline of things as if
all light wavers like a candle’s — brief intermittent

puffs. It’s November. I’m trying to think of one good
thing. The birds this morning like a foreshortened

arrow, a wedge with a few knots knocked out. A sign
of cohesion not direction, to draw together and be

drawn. Sharing each other’s gravity although the crows,
I’m sure, will be up to their hijinks, screaming in trees,

waiting for you to walk by with a new earring.

FROM THE UNDEMANDING NOTEBOOK by Susan Grimm


Photo used under CC.

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About Author

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Susan Grimm is the author of Almost Home, Lake Erie Blue, and Roughed Up by the Sun’s Mothering Tongue. Her work has appeared in Blackbird, The Journal, The Cortland Review, Seneca Review, and Field. She has taught creative writing at Cleveland State University and the Cleveland Institute of Art.

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