Spills

This poet repeatedly edges

to the holy mountain looking for a father

to direct him and experiences pilgrimages, 

yes, more than one, worth writing about. He tortures 

me slow because women are banned from 

this sacred rock. He spills the decorative 

foam from his coffee on my white shirt

when I tell him his writing

pissed me off with jealousy

all shades of green. He wants to 

make amends by sopping up the 

mess - but I'm leaving it forever and 

might even frame it. Little did he know

he already fixed everything when he 

sang Steve Goodman's Spoon River 

the night before, surprising us all 

with his rich, winsome vocals. I also forgive

 him the ease with which he spills

vulnerability all over the 

stage and into the sound system

 when he reads another 

idiot psalm to us 

with a voice resonant 

enough to etch wood grain. His

words need stored up if we're to be

 saved from suffering during the next 

seven year draught.



Scott Cairns - Kindlingfest, Orcas Island Washington, 2015