We knew the rain would come,
and made provisions for this grey—
the bright curtains hanging there,
slouching proof of our optimism.
Rows of glass are clouded in droplets,
we made plans, we must ration our joy.
I walked a long time in the stiff cold with the steel
sleeping monster inside me. There are many things
in the streets now, signs of watery disintegration,
dogshit perhaps, the man who pisses when I go out for bread,
the banners announcing the deportation of immigrants.
We can’t help but feel homeless.
We live at the top of a series of hills,
up always up the narrow lanes.
Arriving home to the highest point in the city,
we pass the hedges where people are sleeping,
shrouded in thin tents and night frost.
These evenings of moon-solace have stretched out
so that I’ve learned it’s good to take time
to savor something sharp; some pickled mango,
a bite of a lemon. Too bad those winter berries
are always poisonous, we so often desire the red in them.
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1 comment:
Dear Heidi,
You are good at linking together poignant images and descriptions. This is a point I cannot emphasize enough. Every poem you write excels in this regard.
That said, I think this poem needs to be brought beyond the realm of description. I see the elements of an interesting conflict between the "We" and the "I." Elements of mood in the poem support each perspective--that of a sheltering group and an alienated individual--but the fluctuation between the two feelings is still strange (in a good way.) My idea would be to think about this conflict as the center of the poem, and then restructure your images around it. But that's just one suggestion of where to take this.
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