A woman I used to be got up out of her grave
trailing rose vines and the scent of men's cologne.
She swung the decades on a knotted ribbon
and said, "There you are, more wounded, more brave."
I replied that I am made of newspaper and moondust,
a castle composed of carnations and wives' tales.
Meet my lover, incorporeal and not yet born--
she admires my home-baked bread and scent of must.
A woman I used to be gifted me a moue
useless and juvenile, then beat me with her
limited beauty. "You are wise but ugly," she
said, haughty and stupid, then looked away.
A woman I used to be got up out of her grave
trailing rose vines and the scent of men's cologne.
I swung her head from an antique silver chain
and said, "Here you are, more wounded every day."
_________
Wow. That first stanza spoke right to me. I felt every line of this poem. "I swung her head from an antique silver chain". Wise, beautiful, more wounded every day. Amazing writing.
ReplyDeleteIn the AA rooms I've long repeated a tale who I was, what happened & what it's like now -- a confession and an iteration both of truth. That iteration summons awfulness from my history and declares me there and not. I slowly realize my essence is intricately both. I love the exhumations here, examinations and interrogations in an exquisitely compact and smart language everyone prays someday I'll aspire to. The beautiful wounds count, if only in these poetry haunts.
ReplyDeleteDamn. All amazing, love the coda of the last stanza. Taking heads and scalps there, “more wounded” refracting what was lost into light.
ReplyDeleteAgain, Neruda comes to mind, but also many other poets whose voices will remain seminal long after their passing, and the dead selves who remain alive in their words. I appreciate and identify with this conversation with what is past and gone yet always present in one's life, so tellingly and beautifully sketched in your exquisite blend of language and image.
ReplyDeleteThis just crushed me, cut me deep. Haunting and...present...I think that's the word I'm looking for--the way hurt smacks us upside the head with clarity, and how we become who we become.
ReplyDelete