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Abril 12, 2011
Before
I always thought death would be like traveling
in a car, moving through the desert,
the earth a little darker than sky at the horizon,
that your life would settle like the end of a day
and you would think of everyone you ever met,
that you would be the invisible passenger,
quiet in the car, moving through the night,
forever, with the beautiful thought of home.
by Carl Adamshick
Posted by sarita at 12:56 AM
Untitled [The more I go, the harder it becomes to return]
The more I go, the harder it becomes to return. To anywhere. There is no one at the ocean this morning. I walked by the campsites and smelled eggs and pancakes. And there were sweet Oregon cherries and watermelon. I wonder if I can go back—what purpose there would be in it—or in any other thing? There's something expensive both ways. Yesterday a woman told me to get a tide schedule and if the people refused to give it to me, I had to insist. She usually gets hers from the Hilton but I don't know where that is so I just imagine the schedule. There is a tide. I can tell that much about anything. What's before me, what isn't. How it got there is a mystery involving only itself—I have no part in that, none at all—my job remains in the thing as it is in the moment it's before me, having left all of its other places, having come this far to show up at all.
Jennifer Denrow
Posted by sarita at 12:51 AM
Late Poem
" . . . a matter of changing a slide in a magic lantern."
I wish we were Indians and ate foie gras
and drove a gas-guzzler
and never wore seat belts
I'd have a baby, yours, cette fois,
and I'd smoke Parliaments
and we'd drink our way through the winter
in spring the baby would laugh at the moon
who is her father and her mother who is his pool
and we'd walk backwards and forwards
in lizard-skin cowboy boots
and read Gilgamesh and Tintin aloud
I'd wear only leather or feathers
plucked from endangered birds and silk
from exploited silkworms
we'd read The Economist
it would be before and after the internet
I'd send you letters by carrier pigeons
who would only fly from one window
to another in our drafty, gigantic house
with twenty-three uninsulated windows
and the dog would be always be
off his leash and always
find his way home as we will one day
and we'd feed small children
peanut butter and coffee in their milk
and I'd keep my hand glued under your belt
even while driving and cooking
and no one would have our number
except I would have yours where I've kept it
carved on the sole of my stiletto
which I would always wear when we walked
in the frozen and dusty wood
and we would keep warm by bickering
and falling into bed perpetually and
entirely unsafely as all the best things are
—your skin and my breath on it.
Cynthia Zarin
Posted by sarita at 12:49 AM
Wellfleet Shabbat
The hawk eye of the sun slowly shuts.
The breast of the bay is softly feathered
dove grey. The sky is barred like the sand
when the tide trickles out.
The great doors of Shabbat are swinging
open over the ocean, loosing the moon
floating up slow distorted vast, a copper
balloon just sailing free.
The wind slides over the waves, patting
them with its giant hand, and the sea
stretches its muscles in the deep,
purrs and rolls over.
The sweet beeswax candles flicker
and sigh, standing between the phlox
and the roast chicken. The wine shines
its red lantern of joy.
Here on this piney sandspit, the Shekinah
comes on the short strong wings of the seaside
sparrow raising her song and bringing
down the fresh clean night.
Marge Piercy
Posted by sarita at 12:49 AM