Updated: Oct 18
Kate O’Halloran‘s poem considers the Edges between Domesticity and Wildness, and wonders if it matters...
All the windows and doors are open.
Outside and inside wander in and out, the way old friends call.
About these edges- wild/domestic, maybe there’s no such thing.
Or it’s soft, like a possibility of gender, tidal, related to the moon.
A spider is finding the wall slippy.
Even to say there’s no such thing...maybe you have to hold an opposite before both
run through your fingers like fine tilth.
Men have told women things for such a long time. I’m really very tired of it.
There’s an edge. Full of heat, matterIng so much, but not now.
You’re supposed to speak up if you want to join in.
I want to pipe down.
All these hands in my hands, knowing how!
This is a holding song.
It’s not written down.