Sunday, April 25, 2010

Poplar: a tree especially accustomed to the droughts and floods of the plains

Your house was a womb.
Heavy canvas maroon curtains.

Did you feel you'd be stillborn
into heaven with Linda?

Widower. A cruel name,
as if you had done something.
No, you had died first and
shattered her,
but you returned with a second heart.

And then you crafted the womb upon her death
to bear her back into the world, slowly if necessary,
with her electric lighthouse as your séance candle,
with all her antique model ships surrounding you --
many ready vessels.

But framed
and prominent
near the TV
was the
store-bought
poster of the
man dwarfed
by the lighthouse
that was dwarfed
by the wave
crashing into it.

4 comments:

  1. This is really piercing. I felt the need to read it twice.

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  2. There is so much in this and it's all vital and real. Man, colorful and important!

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  3. Thank you, both. This poem's been a long time coming. Glad it resonanted.

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  4. The lighthouse dwarf; very good.

    At first impression, I wanted to turn on the light; but, that's not quite right, is it?

    I think the womb is pregnant with prefered memory. Nourished by the ideal desires of the missing matron. I hope their reunion completed the gestation.

    Enjoyed the read.

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