There's a placid place,
an unfulfilled space, where poets roam, singly, searching, singing the mystery marrow through their poem. Grandfather who died or traveled west
when my mother was three, what grows in the soil of you? Are you the Cherokee rumor of my ancestry, I once buried a horse in my backyard.
The hole was exactly how I had imagined it when I was child. Two fixed eyes, an unintelligible soul. I kept it all, then walked to through the presidio. Off to the hospital, for a nappy nap. I have wanted to open the earth,
to split the crumbled dirt with sinking spade. Dig slowly down, carving towers in the depths, exact in their geometry. The prick of the thorn
drew a single drop of blood a brilliant, perfect red that grew, spreading over my body Some vague image of you as a mother cooking eggs frying bacon or
you hopping with foot on a heel and one foot almost on a heel with your business suit or you painting gulls flying over a New England morning as fishing boats float by with one gull perching on the remnant of a fallen pier The pier was the self-portrait you never posed if I had, perchance, darling--
now I’m strictly speaking hypothetically, two doves, one white and one sort of greyish, you know, dirty and with a broken wing, probably sickly, about to ‘kick the can’ |
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