Friday, March 30, 2012

The poems she finds in the margins

So I opened up a notebook today--a notebook that I had not opened since summer semester of my first year of graduate school and I found the following poem, nestled beside some jottings on Lacan.

the fullness beats
and the anis
from the tree tops
and your swift forearm
in the sunlight
catches petals
catches fabric

and you say something
so perfectly harmless
that floods and floods
and rushes like a prophecy
a snowfall that ceded
until puddles formed from
statues of white.

this world, love,
this world of yours is so severe—
a strange place in the woods
that nips at my hands
and clips at my heels
and chokes through subtle inching
like ivy.

this is your thicket, love,
your tangled embrace of brier
—I come no more here—
I dare not.
Instead, I scuttle in parks
on june evenings
when the dimming
light feels like
falling in love
—with the chrysanthemums in bloom—
until I catch my shadow sloping
like a solitary sentinel,
guarding what remains of you

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