Fay Dillof
Winter 2024 | Poetry
Spin
1
Once, not too long ago, I had an attack of vertigo.
Once, not too long ago, I went to the sea.
Once–––
before so much loss
and the world tilted––
but that seems a very long time ago.
2
Having fallen out of a practice of joy––
although I can see out the window––
almost pink, almost purple,
the heather––
what a word––
a mix of feather and heaven.
Having fallen out of a practice of joy
and finding the alternative tedious.
Having fallen out of a practice of joy
and unable to sit still on the couch, at the kitchen table,
on the living room floor.
The bar in town
calls itself a saloon,
I guess that's okay.
But I don't want my experiences to be limited by––to–– the name, Debbie
Downer,
I've been calling myself.
Leave it outside, the bartender says
as a man saunters in with a bike
and I see out the window, there's a stand
beneath the silver trees.
3
In the morning, for the muffin crumbs, the blackbirds hop closer.
Bravery is not the same, I know–– I know!––as trust.
4
To begin with the Sycamore instead of me.
Truth or lie?
Truth or dare?
Fay Dillof’s poetry has appeared in Best New Poets, New England Review, Ploughshares, Gettysburg Review, Beloit Poetry Journal, Spillway, New Ohio Review, Field, and elsewhere. A recipient of scholarships from Bread Loaf and Sewanee, she been awarded the Milton Kessler Memorial Prize and the Dogwood Literary Prize in Poetry.