Megan Porter Poetry

Look, it doesn’t mean anything strongly in particular probably, so

don’t rely on reading me—

do your own Sisyphean navel grazing—

it’s not going to be me doing the heavy lifting

Hope you know that

I’m an eternal observer, I’m a god like that

You’ve got some words, some music, some art out of me— (thank you Apollo)

what more do you want? Harden up and tell me.

Look, it’ll probably be over eventually, because

that rock is going to roll back down that hill

Sometimes the gods don’t work in mysterious ways

The point is that you do it by yourself,

The point is that you give it another shot—

Be brave

Chicken Noodles—that’ll do.

I’m 8 again.

crinkling open the plastic wrapper

placing the dry block into the beige tupperware strainer

(worrying about something or other)

ripping open the seasoning foil

watching errant powder fall down to a life on the floor

(pretending I don’t see it)

moving the empty kettle to the sink

filling it only part way

(thinking only of myself)

hefting it back to its plastic cradle

waiting for it to finish doing its job

(stewing in impatience and resentment)

pouring boiling water gently because I know what hurt feels like

clamping down the beige porous lid

(shutting down)

setting a timer so that I know when to come back

playing while the universe helps the magic happen

(distracting myself with fantasies)

straining away what I don’t want or need

eating my favourite food

Chicken Noodles—that’ll do.

I’m 33 again.

knowing that some old patterns are worth repeating

for Johnny

You’re the star

Forward | Forward | Down | Up

wherever you are

I gotta wear these shades

Down | Down | Forward | Forward | Low Punch

I see your soul exploding

my heart going supernova

Forward | Down | Back | Y

the hero worship never fades

so keep dancing for me

LT + RT

it doesn’t matter that I come and go

you’re there when I need you

I love you so

Sunlight streams in,

picks up every stain

on the bay window.

A brown leaf casually

falls through the bare

fingers of a backyard tree.

The tiny lizard crunches

through the fallen ones

to find a new place to hide.

Paint flakes off the pergola,

beige and unremarkable,

with clinging lines of dirt.

I could try to see a point here.

But I think instead

I’ll sit here with them.

And in a way

you keep skipping

to the end.

You sabotage yourself. So that the bad ending happens sooner.

It makes me think you’re only skimming these paragraphs.

What hurts, when you take it word by word at a time?

These twists and turns can be handled. Building up, breaking down.

I wish you knew—a happy ending could be true.