the woolen crypt

Madrid. If you’d asked me a day ago if I’d ever set foot in the city, I would have said no. But yesterday I was having dinner in a pseudo-tapas restaurant that served Schnitzel and potato soup with wurst, and I remembered Madrid. I could barely recall why I went, or why I spent only one night. But there I was, out alone at 10 pm or so on a terribly busy square, dark and staircased, teeming with families. As the mother of small children at the time, I could only think it was a school night, and how would these children wake up on time. What a world, I thought, take me back to my cobblestones and mittens and punctual bedtimes. The memory was so vague I was almost afraid of it. But it came back. There were people waiting for me in a restaurant. I had a place to stay. It was the year Tom Jones had a comeback hit. Maybe that’s why I was blocking it.

In the less distant past, which I’ve barely had the opportunity to forget, a lot less exotic and mysterious things happened. There was, for example, a supposed tapas restaurant that served Schnitzel, and herring. Still, I do have some poems out concerning plants, birds, sleep and doodling. In honor of control freaks everywhere who like kids to go to bed on time, the Foundling Review has my poem Bonsai. And Curio Poetry published three of my poems, Spinning the Vines (ufos), Snooze Button (utmost reluctance) and Boone Hall (zoning laws). Be sure to read Dan Nielsen’s poems when you’re at Curio. You will be glad.

Song of the day: Sex Bomb