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Posts Tagged ‘window’

No space of regret can make amends for one life’s opportunities misused!
― Charles Dickens, ”A Christmas Carol”

Through the window, I see myself,
dead. The white sheet doesn’t cover
my feet, and they stretch, stupid and pink,
off the edge of the gurney. There is too little
callus on them. They should be dirty
from walking the world. What a waste to die
with clean feet. The earth would not be
so covered in dirt if we were supposed to stay clean.

And there I am, facing away from the corpse.
So human to want to turn away. My sleeves
are rolled up, but my hands hang empty.

And here on the street, I see in the window
some semblance of my face,
not quite transparent, but substanceless.
I pick up a rock small enough to throw,
big enough to break the glass. No.
I drop the rock, untie my shoes instead.


This poem is a response to a picture, part of Rattle’s Ekphrasis challenge …
http://www.rattle.com/images/ekphrasisbernal.jpg

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Three Windows

how did it enter,
this thought
wearing bells

*

scraping morning frost—
sometimes it takes so little
to clearly see

*

shuttering
the pane—still something
slips through

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In the backseat,
Vivian says, Mom,
I want to know
the darkness,

and so rolls down
her window
and shouts,
Hello Night!

And then she
whispers something
to the air
that I can’t hear

though I strain
against the rush
of road noise
to decipher her words.

The conversation belongs
to her, though, and
to the night, and to
the window that

already she has learned
to open herself.

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