Conyer Clayton

 

PAYING FOR STORAGE

 

I pound my fist against your back

to loosen phlegm. I’ve always

told you smoking kills, but

you’d do it with ropes

and bottle tops. Your soles

unsteady on a wicker chair. 

Pour yourself into

one more moonrise.

Draw out the misery in me.

I can only see

this failing. You disappearing.

A man’s frayed face

and brittle leaves. A boulder

obscured in slow-moving fog.

I can only see

you vanished

among tall desert rocks.

Your mother says

she thinks she’s heard

the last from you,

and I can only see

the chair leg tremor.

Are the floorboards even?

Did you even check?

Conyer Clayton is an Ottawa-based writer who aims to live with compassion, gratitude, and awe. She has two chapbooks: The Marshes (& co collective, 2017) and For the Birds. For the Humans. (battleaxe press, 2018). Her work appears in Prairie Fire, The Maynard, In/Words, Bywords, Transom, and others. She won Arc’s 2017 Diana Brebner Prize and received third place in Prairie Fire’s 2017 Poetry Contest. Check out conyerclayton.com for updates on her endeavours.