Winters are long here.
The road a dark gray, the maples gray, silvered with lichen,
and the sun low on the horizon,
white on blue; at sunset, vivid orange-red.
When I shut my eyes, it vanishes,
When I open my eyes, it reappears.
Outside, spring rain, a pulse, a film on the window.
And suddenly it’s summer, all puzzling fruit and light.
Posts tagged poetry.
sleep hard, dream harder: YoungA thousand doors ago when I was a lonely kid in a big house with... ›
A thousand doors ago
when I was a lonely kid
in a big house with four
garages and it was summer
as long as I could remember,
I lay on the lawn at night,
clover wrinkling over me,
the wise stars bedding over me,
my mother’s window a funnel
of yellow heat running out,
my father’s window, half shut,
an eye where sleepers pass,
and the boards of the house
were smooth and white as wax
and probably a million leaves
sailed on their strange stalks
as the crickets ticked together
and I, in my brand new body,
which was not a woman’s yet,
told the stars my questions
and thought God could really see
the heat and the painted light,
elbows, knees, dreams, goodnight.
You took me to a place
where I could see the evil in my character
and left me there.
You should know
that when you swagger among us
I hear two voices speaking,
one your spirit, one
the acts of your hands.
Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.
Made me what I am.
Gray, glued to her dream
Kitchen, among bones, among these
Dripping willows squatted to imbed
A bulb: I tend her plot. Her pride
And joy she said. I have no pride.
The lawn thins: overfed,
Her late roses gag on fertilizer past the tool
House. Now the cards are cut.
She cannot eat, she cannot take the stairs—
My life is sealed. The woman with the hound
Comes up but she will not be harmed.
I have the care of her.
I heard my insides
Roll into a crib…
Washing underwear in the Atlantic
Touched the sun’s sea
As light welled
That could devour water.
I find now, swallowing one teaspoon
of pain, that it drops downward
to the past where it mixes
with last year’s cupful
and downward into a decade’s quart
and downward into a lifetime’s ocean.
I alternate treading water
and deadman’s float.
And I. I too. Quite collected at cocktail parties, meanwhile in my head I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.
it was again the evening that drew me
back to the field where I could sense no boundary—
the smell of dry earth, cool arch of my neck, the darkness
entirely within myself.
sometimes I watch
from the porch near the upper garden until twilight makes
lamps of the first lilies: all this time,
peace never leaves him. But it rushes through me,
not as sustenance the flower holds
but like bright light through the bare tree.
she has been a prisoner since she has been a daughter.
May apple, daffodil,
and by the front
shade of purple
and lavender lilac,
my mother’s favorite flower,
sweet breath drifting through
the open windows:
perfume of memory—conduit
by Linda Pastan