Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
9.28.2017
1.02.2016
5.11.2013
Dearest Mommy
I would like to spend a day,
sitting beside you on your bed.
We can watch TV or just sleep
together. We don't need to speak
or even touch. All I need
is some time to be
with you, here and now.
I'll tell you about how
there was a boy and now
there's a girl I fell in love
with. She's tiny and beautiful
and someone I know you
already love without
even meeting. I wish you
were here for even just a few
quiet moments. To make up
for the days we've lost
and for the years that I'm scared
will be forgotten.
I hope you know that
every day you are missed.
11.21.2012
11.17.2012
A Fantasy
One of my favorite poems by Louise Glück. I miss writing.
I'll tell you something: every day
people are dying. And that's just the beginning.
Every day, in funeral homes, new widows are born,
new orphans. They sit with their hands folded,
trying to decide about this new life.
Then they're in the cemetery, some of them
for the first time. They're frightened of crying,
sometimes of not crying. Someone leans over,
tells them what to do next, which might mean
saying a few words, sometimes
throwing dirt in the open grave.
And after that, everyone goes back to the house,
which is suddenly full of visitors.
The widow sits on the couch, very stately,
so people line up to approach her,
sometimes take her hand, sometimes embrace her.
She finds something to say to everybody,
thanks them, thanks them for coming.
In her heart, she wants them to go away.
She wants to be back in the cemetery,
back in the sickroom, the hospital. She knows
it isn't possible. But it's her only hope,
the wish to move backward. And just a little,
not so far as the marriage, the first kiss.
I'll tell you something: every day
people are dying. And that's just the beginning.
Every day, in funeral homes, new widows are born,
new orphans. They sit with their hands folded,
trying to decide about this new life.
Then they're in the cemetery, some of them
for the first time. They're frightened of crying,
sometimes of not crying. Someone leans over,
tells them what to do next, which might mean
saying a few words, sometimes
throwing dirt in the open grave.
And after that, everyone goes back to the house,
which is suddenly full of visitors.
The widow sits on the couch, very stately,
so people line up to approach her,
sometimes take her hand, sometimes embrace her.
She finds something to say to everybody,
thanks them, thanks them for coming.
In her heart, she wants them to go away.
She wants to be back in the cemetery,
back in the sickroom, the hospital. She knows
it isn't possible. But it's her only hope,
the wish to move backward. And just a little,
not so far as the marriage, the first kiss.
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