The poetry of sisters begins long before memory and the giving of names. First kinship that finds you braids histories under a bright sun. A fierce love grows up unnoticed. Quietly forgives your unkindest moments calls out your quirks jumps for your joy. And always — always speaks truth to your power. The poetry of sisters is a closeness swifter than time & all talk. Intricate mystery of bones that know ache rejoice for another in ways no other ever will.
Category Archives: Be-ings
The poetry of fawn is dappled. Brown creature of snow-flecked sides, ginger footsteps and crooked legs unacquainted with their own agility. Given to soft, nervous interrogation. Studies each leaf, each blade of grass, pedestrian and leashed dog with equal parts apprehension & astonishment, as if to ask, “What new and awfully wondrous thing are you? A tender willingness to be surprised that will never be outgrown.
The poetry of a sleeping face is not the poetry of Prufrock, who assured us there would be time, there would be time ”To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet.’ No a slumbering countenance is deeply unprepared, unintended for audience. Like an unfinished painting on an easel in a room the artist has just left. It breathes gently, eyes closed, mouth slightly open. Silent, articulate, vulnerable, true.