There is an audio of this poem (which I did not listen to) on Oratory.
Listen. I will tell you everything. The weather is turning.
Soon it will be time to unroll the Persian rugs and lay them
on the polished floors.
I will hold nothing back. I am brittle, like glass; like leaves
of a tree too long without water; a cocoon, untenanted,
exposed to the sun.
This morning I wore a jacket to walk the river path. Two crows,
in their black robes, pecked at the body of a thick green snake.
My mother was a northerner.
She carried me across thin ice. Many times I slipped beneath
the frozen water. I never knew my father. Tomatoes are laid
on the kitchen counter,
red bulbs on the maple wood. I prepare the knife: steel blade,
sharpening stone. I want to slice to the seedy centers without
bruising the skin.
I loved my father. He had perfect, beautiful hands. He kept
them manicured and clean. There are reasons you must not
touch me. My grandmother
lived with God in her garden. She fed me carrots and peas,
she put white lilies by my bed. I am telling you everything.
It is cold here.
Birch trees bend in their white sleeves, leaves hissing in the wind.
A blade of sun slants down, casting serrated shadows on the hard
ground. Are you listening?
Do you understand? The dog waits, and waits, at the door.
Yesterday, I dropped the Murano vase. It cannot be repaired.
I cut myself on sharp, thin air.
Another forgotten poem, for NaPoWriMo 2012. Maybe worth working on?
We know this path well, both of us.
We meet, and begin to walk together,
stepping around potholes, exclaiming
at this wildflower, that view of blue
mountains. One trips on a rock,
the other offers a hand-up. The path
narrows, we are touching shoulders
now. Our hands brush. We help
each other through treacherous
passages. The sun is straight over-
head. We pass the canteen back
and forth, tie our shirts around
our waists. At the spring, we dash
icy water on our faces, our bare arms,
on one another. Now we are laughing.
Soon we will turn back. Soon, the sun
will fall down the sky. Until then,
there is no place to hide.
#poem #digitalart #artjournal #collage #digitalartjournaling #digitalcollage #artjournalcaravan
After you left, days of summer came
too early, forcing blooms that will shrivel
in the next, inevitable, frost. I sleep and sleep
through the long heat. Afternoon shadows
slant across the grass. Women pass by in pale
dresses, bare skin. I close the shutters
against the sun. Later, rain. Snow
high and spare in the mountains. Aspens
greening by the river. Wild geese fly low,
dark wings skimming the water. I always
know what time it is where you are. Flowerbeds
fill with tulips, red and yellow, and blue,
blue iris. The river rises, dark and loud.
My flannel sheets are damp in the morning;
I fold them away, bring out the cotton.
A pair of mallards sit together on a floating
log on the muddy water. I watch patterns
of light on the ceiling, white plum blossoms.
Yesterday, I went to the nursery, brought home
pansies, petunias, sweet william. The river
runs faster, birch trees stand in the water
at its edge. Under the dark surface, something
rises, sinks, tumbles in the current. This is how
it feels to love someone else's darling.
Light moves through the rooms, darkening
with clouds. I sit alone in my beautiful
house. I do not dream. I remember
your hands in my hair. I think about
the translucent sky; the fast river; the rocks
along the bank, wet and mossy; how old
women have carried firestones for years,
from camp to camp, nestled against their
bellies. My bones are dry kindling, my flesh
sweet oil. Blue flames flicker along my arms,
across my flowered sheets. Shadows move
on the bedroom walls.
I wake in pale light. Swallows
carving the sky, and in the distance
the raucous voice of the crow. This
long day opens out before me.
Dreams flee. I have forgotten
how to hold them. A little sugar,
a little salt. Wine in an etched glass.
Green grapes and a pear's soft curve.
In the garden, I eat an apple
and cheese. The apple gone soft,
too long in the bowl. I feed
the brownish half to squirrels.
The cheese is hard, speckled
with mold. I cut away its crumbly
skin and pick at the rest. I wanted
crisp sweetness, cheddar's sharp bite.
I eat these. They are what I have.