Open Mic Blog
|Posted on April 5, 2009 at 8:45 AM|
All-but-invisible typography ---
upper and lower case, ampersands
like curling vines --- the way his hands
are letterpressed in the pulp of memory,
the way his voice coils in the fibered square
without so much as a whisper, not a word
or a lover's sigh, only the flat, furred
surface.Tabula rasa. Nothing there.
You use it for a list of Things to Do
Tomorrow, in that other life you lead,
the one in which you hardly ever need
to think of him. (You think he thinks of you
the same way: translucent, white on white.
He lifts you up. He holds you to the light.)
Originally published in Arts & Letters
For over twenty years we have been friends
and enemies and friends again. We four
have coupled and uncoupled, now, in more
configuations than the various fronds
on all these different types of ferns. My hands,
crumbling clods and sifting earth to pour
around the knotted roots, have met with your
hands, and in such diversity of bonds,
they cannot be uncoiled in memory,
but spread beneath our lives, a raveled skein
of joy and sorrow, each of us aware
of something growing that we cannot see.
Our talk is comfortable. "It looks like rain."
"That would be good." This is a kind of prayer.
Originally published in The WPFW Poetry Anthology
Colleen Anderson is a writer, songwriter, and designer in Charleston, West Virginia.
See more of her work at http://www.motherwitdesign.com.