Skip to main content

Homemade of Words (ghazal)

By day we ran barefoot. By night we bathed in her cascade of words
Pinocchio, Little Boy Blue, and all that wild parade of words

The room with the wandering beds where we were little girls on boats
At bedtime floated away into a fairy place made of words

Oh they felt guilty they’d taken us from the land of milk and Kellogg’s
So they tied us to home with their endless golden braid of words

Daddy read Bibles, biographies, Newsweek, and sometimes Le Monde
But Mommy read mysteries, novels, poetry, in every last shade of words

Of sewing and cookery, cleaning and wifery my mother taught me nothing
We traveled a sparkling world behind our enchanted blockade of words

Our homeschool had number cards, sundials, paper-bag horseheads
But the fabric of delight was sung, recited, and prayed with words

She opened her golden throat and crooned us a universe of witchery
Her free-range children built of song and stoutly homemade of words
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

the next time

the next time we all stay inside it will be for love of our cooking pots pencil sharpeners Buddhist gongs ripped-up couches rooster cloths the magnolias will explode hard, pinker than ever but the windows will grow dirty the front doors cobweb over the hinges will rust while we burrow lost in our old old things *** the next time we all walk down the middle of the street we will be moving refrigerators, lifeboats, houses all of the engines gone kaboom and we the elderwives power your world onewoman, onewoman, onewoman at a time on feet, toes, blisters onewoman, onewoman, onewoman at a time with the hum of our babies driving our bellies forward forward *** the next time the airplanes are pulled from the sky watch us pile them into mindbombs telling our unborn selves the story long-ago stewardess pin collections, coloring books little feet kicking the air while we worldsailed high *** the next time quiet wo...
Post a Comment
Read more

even better

even better than the writing is the not writing even better than the rooms are the hallways even better than the fingers are the missing rings even better than the cookies are the empty greasy spots on the baking sheet how will I know, she wondered, and her backache said, just start but where should I start, she said, and her sore feet said, right here and when do I stop, she asked but there wasn’t a good answer even harder than the aches are the wants even harder than the fists are the open hands even harder than the waiting is the being even harder than the trees are the countless, nameless, hopeful flowers I walked over a bridge, she said I opened a letter, and I learned something new I closed a book, and I missed so much I sat on a bench, and I laughed even older than the sense is the nonsense even older than the aches are the hollow rooms even older than this poem is the waiting even older than the end is the constantly shif...
1 comment
Read more

Alakazam

All of a sudden the bakery All of a mouth the creature All over hot the driveway All out of pocket the pickers All over town the regret All of a piece the rumble Alakazam, the belly All over now, the shouting All of us masked, this peacetime All over shy, this spring All of the worst, over now? Always already the bakery
Post a Comment
Read more