A sequence of poems (and photo-collages) inspired by Tunisia. Published October 2015 from Annexe. Two poems at The Manchester Review.
Limited edition (sold out).
The House
No one you know has lived there
in fifteen years and still you,
still compiling these bits of dead code,
expect to be home soon. You’ll now be able
to appreciate the time you-know-who
spent working out which linen would save
the most morning light of the solarium
in that vast sectional. Even when
the others had gone, as now,
except to bed in all those quirky
rooms, the latent glow, like a memory,
could not be entirely accounted for
by the girl. What did the distressed key rack
in the shabby chic boutique say – the only thing
in the place without a heart? Or was it some
shit your sister tagged you in, or the joke
surfacing too late when he asked if
you’d pay for the carpet today?
Control. You must learn control.
This desert is REAL. The light
is REAL. The driver who looks like
a pirate is REAL. The fata morgana making
the little igloo from La Guerre des étoiles
(as the concierge said, arranging the driver)
look like an island in a vast salt lake
is REAL. The vast salt lake is REAL, but dry.
Your tears are REAL on seeing it.
J.T. Welsch 