Thursday, July 3, 2008

confessional poesy


The new clock in this room is ticking and I realize that movement is an illusion. There is the laundry, the sun-brewed iced tea, the vacuum tracks on the stairs. My husband overslept today and I felt responsible. My son needs reminders to wash his face. I should lose twenty pounds, get a Ph.d, become someone who travels to foreign countries on a whim. India. Switzerland. Katmandu. I could do without spiders. I carry poetry in my purse, just in case. This book is you. This book is me. Only in a parallel universe can I be the one who defines us by tracing diagonal lines mown across the grass.

No comments: