Carolyn Supinka
Daylight savings self portrait
Today I was the wind blowing through the day’s stupid flute.
I’ve been finding myself turning within the field
of certain situations: I buy a lock box and lock the key inside.
I buy a wig and lose track of the rest of the costume. Sometimes we need
to break our perfect wrists. I watch my best friend’s baby become a baby
and begin to walk. Life speeds up on the kitchen floor, where she sits
and holds her phone up to his face so I can see the change
from the week before. I’m waiting for the day we can recognize one another
in the myth of the present, when your name is the key to the safe. I’ve been falling
into sinkholes of the past. This means that one moment gives way to another. That means
one minute I’m just waiting for a bus, and the next minute, I’m covered in rats,
miles below the sidewalk replaying a party, a pain. A late night walk home
to a different home from long ago. I’d like to live a year in which I embrace the winter
darkness. When I recognize the end before it approaches, licks my hand, runs away.
Carolyn Supinka is a writer and visual artist. She is the recipient of a Fulbright Scholarship and received an MFA from Oregon State University, where she was the recipient of a Provost's Distinguished Fellowship. Her work has recently been published in Hobart, DIAGRAM, The Hunger, and Radar Poetry. She currently lives in Portland, Oregon.