sip water from melting ice
and I see their red breasted life
in this gray-mist twilight
just after we buried a brother.
with the priest, “our daily bread”
while birds found clear elixir.
Now I pour a scotch and drink
liquid coals to remind myself
This is all I can imagine
and the pine tree’s fronds
and bobbing feathery doubles
reflected outside the glass.
C. Denise Low. Published 17 Dec. 2006 in the Kansas City Star (F10)
http://www.kansascity.com/mld/kansascity/entertainment/books/16241562.htm
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ReplyDeleteAwake, for Jack
ReplyDeleteDead morning full of wind.
It’s enough to make you think
Mother Earth’s a real phony baloney.
My past lives hanging in the closet
From nooses of shadow and spider web.
Or so I would believe,
If I ever got around to getting dressed.
The landscape is choked by robins
Whose red undercarriages
Set the ice on fire devilishly.
And you, my love, up to read the obits.
Our crib is next-door to the graveyard,
And the sliding glass reflects everything
To the scale of a blind kid’s dollhouse mirror.
Widows leave whiskey flasks
And love letters at the stones of war vets,
Hearses from black-and-white comedies
Are rigged with faulty locks, and a ditch
Digger in his casket slides back down the hill.
A priest, deadpan, reads from his favorite
Book, hot around the collar.
This is fun--parodies are flattering. I like "red undercarriages."
ReplyDelete