Tuesday, February 13, 2018


To the generations of women I come from

When the black bile rises within me,
And the grass juice drips sordid down my throat,
I wear all of their faces on mine,
A history of women, and tousled hair.

Their lives tinge my blood
Like ageless smiles over my eyes.
They gather in the morning
With names, faces, and loose ends,
And an almost forgotten lullaby.

Petals of the same flower
Come to rest in me,
Peeling like a white veil off graying hair,
Like rouge cracking on crinkling smiles.

And drip by drip,
Like a bleach blue on naked whites,
I am left smelling the evening
From afar.

The bats are closer to them now
Than my words,
Peeling off the marble
And into their sleep.

A saga of laughter, and of cardamom,
And of coffee black into my day,
Of heels racing the clock,
And bathing the terrazzo,
And soaking my feet...

Tell me, when does the night stop,
And the dawn flee,
And my name turn into a dream?

(originally posted on June 06, 2005)


katy said...

this is remarkably reminicent of Louise Erdrich's Jacklight. "The Woods" in particular. she's a fantastic poet who borders finely on native american femenism, with so much fire and soul, and that necessary command over language. brilliant read a.m i really enjoyed it.

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Ian Cochrane said...

Heady with nostalgia, happy & sad.
Laced with faces & perfume past.