Tonset Road
After our daughter Fiona was born in the heat of the city’s August, a friend offered us a reprieve at her family’s beach house. Fiona, Angad and I found ourselves in a Nor’easter with few sunny days. We met rain with trips to Hole in One, Log Cabin Farm, and Nauset Beach—catching the tumult on shore. Mainly we existed inside and around the property, meeting life outside our personage—listening to the animacy of Tonset Road: bramble, pine and cove;
heron and the lapse of empty sailboats;
stones, acorns and swooshing grass.
The wild juxtaposed our enclosure from a prolonged storm. Tonset Road; the rushing in of parenthood. Waters white-capping overhead and within.
The intuitive give & take—our universal survival.
Something under the surface exists in one long inhale.
Tap in. Tap in. Tap in.
▹
One triangle
cuts the blue cove.
I suppose I could end here.
Bright orange hat
covers a reflection
through the sliding door.
Black suit– holding body.
A mother’s body.
Curved, soft,
pale for September.
I thought I’d sit–
on the adirondack
over strawlike grass.
Listening to crickets–
and the hum
of a bedroom fan.
Someone walks along the shore.
His sunglasses are warmblooded
and his polo is short.
…Fairies exist.
My family is dying to know
my occupation at dinner
over bread.
Why don’t we speak
when we talk?
How do you know
when we’re not listening?
▹
Tonset Road is under production as a visual poem/book. For now, I’ve copied it here.
Part 1 is above.
Part 2-4 arriving soon.
