I attach heavy drapes to my forehead,
stolen from a 14,000,000 year old house.
They make simple tasks difficult:
reaching for cans,
walking in alleys,
holding up lids.
But, the cats still climb them.
The toddlers continue to spin in their velvet arms.
The wind spits at their folds.
1 comments:
Dear Clarisse--I am so glad that you are writing again. Your ability to render everyday occurrences and objects alive and breathing and emotional and deeply poignant is magical. I love these latest poems.
I have wondered if your long absence was due to the uncomfortable self consciousness caused by me taking an interest in your poetry. If so, I am glad to see that you have been able to move beyond that, because you really are a great writer, and your poems should not be hidden. You remind me of Emily Dickinson. She was, is, the best I have seen at doing what you also do. Although she is so good, I believe you have the same gift. And remember, no one appreciated her poetry until long after she was gone.
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