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Convalescent

 

Go into the garden, she says,

hurried, leaning away from me.

Something is wanting, locked to the moon -

I watched from the window, those rolling pales.

She is not with me.

 

I came to, with raspberry bitten fingers,

a vast place.  Each glance

 littered the dawn, out of reach, with lawns

sheared, transparent.

Smudged with memory, I looked for her.

 

If the garden knew, she kept quiet.

My breath, choleric, rapped the gaps;

each lunatic clasped in the dark needled trees,

and my calls, like the cancer of baying hounds,

threw fire out into the winds.

 

I stalked her; tepid waters, of what I remain -

and vacuous, thought Fear, bleached in veils of white -

I walked, my belly groaning with the past,

and walked and walked,

 keeping upright in the pity, bowels and all.

 

Go into the garden, she says,

and I try not to hurry, with my thick fat tongue,

I really try,

hearing laughter,

to will a good not gone.

 

 

 

 

◄ Sleep

The Death of a Tree ►

Comments

Philipos

Sun 4th Sep 2011 19:00

Enjoyed it. Conjures up a lot of powerful images for me but did wonder if the word 'Canker' might be more appropriate than Cancer in stanza 3, as you seem to be using an animal metaphor.

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Ann Foxglove

Fri 2nd Sep 2011 13:21

Really enjoyed this poem Marianne. Lovely.

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Cynthia Buell Thomas

Thu 1st Sep 2011 20:30

Masterful. I wish I got all the nuanced allusions, but I think I understand enough. With your work, it's the physical feel of the words, and the relentless mood, that absorbs the reader totally.

I really want to catch up with past posts, too. But not tonight.

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