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“At the Window” (detail), oil on canvas, by Winslow Homer, 1872.
your mother’s gardenias still bloom
on the blue porch with the faded bench
nailhead eyes staring out at
the sidewalk baked into ancient rectangles
scarred and pitted
and never in all these years repaired by the town
you still live behind the blackout window
silent as the sphinx
sweating in darkness
decaying in the stifling atmosphere of
nothing changed in sixty years
i wonder what asteroid collided with your life
leaving a cratered womb that swallowed you whole
no one ever sees you watering those gardenias
and you never answer my knock
i suppose the next time we meet
you’ll be laid out in a pine box
taking that secret with you
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5 comments
says:
Jul 7, 2017
Riveting poem that takes the reader through a host of images and reflections. Extremely well-written.
P.D.Deshpande says:
Jul 8, 2017
Excellent poem!
Denise Baxter Yoder says:
Jul 8, 2017
Rich in texture and steamed with questions….mystery remains behind the door….makes me wonder too
Michael Gelb says:
Jul 8, 2017
Yes, mystery. Very well crafted. Thank you for sharing.
Frederick Andrew says:
Jul 8, 2017
Potent imagery expertly invoked.