Lapse // Dorianne Laux

[iatrogenicmyth.livejournal.com]

Poem beginning with a line from Gwendolyn Brooks


I am not deceived, I do not think it is still summer. I

see the leaves turning on their stems. I am

not oblivious to the sun as it lowers on its stem, not

fooled by the clock holding off, not deceived

by the weight of its tired hands holding forth. I

do not think my dead will return. They will not do

what I ask of them. Even if I plead on my knees. Not

even if I kiss their photographs or think

of them as I touch the things they left me. It

isn’t possible to raise them from their beds, is

it? Even if I push the dirt away with my bare hands? Still-

ness, unearth their faces. Bring me the last dahlias of summer.

Comments

[duathir.livejournal.com]

Beautiful; thank you.