Tuesday, April 17, 2012

National Poetry Month 30 Poems in 30 Days Challenge, Poem #12

Visiting my grandparent's home in the winter of 2003 to see the bright spots on the wall where their pictures used to hang

Papa left a depression on his side
  of the bed deep as a grave but narrow
  enough to throw an arm across, which my
  grandmother did in the purple moment
  each morning before sun struck dusty blinds,
so the mattress remained, worn away by
  fifty years of sleep carved like the beds
  of our glacial lakes, hollows in the hills
  lined with serrated shale and muck thick longing
  like a heart failing beneath wrinkled breasts,
remained after the weeping pictures were
  smothered behind paperbacks, after photographs
  were unfurled and secured under tableclothes
  with careful even-cut strips of scotch tape
  where I'd find them years later when she died
  at last died, from the missing metastasized.

No comments:

Post a Comment