I call upon you, voice forbidden from the beginning, a sibylline spell to summon a god -- that o-shaped flume descending into breath's dark furnace ... To speak in cycles of the moon, desire thrusting upward through the hole that silence is: how the world was filled with one sound that splintered into the many selves we call a soul, endless babble in the mouth of an old woman confined to a chair on wheels -- @3Where am I going? Where am I going? I am sitting here getting older and older...@1 She reads no further. Outside, children sled down hills she can no longer climb while notes from an upright piano drift out the window -- @3so meaningless@1, she thinks, @3this hour, this music, this snow@1... Or was it a dream repeating itself through a life that escaped her attention -- an atrium of twilight where the blind are gathered, hands groping down spiral banisters as they ease themselves past memory's double doors. Used with the permission of Copper Canyon Press, P.O. Box 271, Port Townsend, WA 98368-0271, www.cc.press.org | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MEMORY by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON PROVING by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE BALINESE WITCH DOCTOR by KAREN SWENSON INGRATITUDE by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH DEATH'S JEST-BOOK: THE SLIGHT AND DEGENERATE NATURE OF MAN by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES LARABELLE; CANTO THIRD by LEVI BISHOP |