Who is twelve? Not you, in absolute skirt, and sweet on treasures twisted out from underneath the pokeweed and plywood. Someone has promised you sticky canyon jewels, and then showed you where to put your hands, saying, It's like peeling the sky. And suddenly in your nervous uncle's fuchsia garden your life has the smell ofan old bone corset you've never seen. In your own miniature Illinois, the nightsworth ofever-early trains runs you ragged witll wool insomnia, squandered earthquake. Slowly, in a tight dress, cheating at truth or dare, a quick liquid has stolen its rival, heat, from your round body as you cross into sleep. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONGS FOR MY MOTHER: 2. HER HANDS by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH TO PRIMROSES FILLED WITH MORNING DEW by ROBERT HERRICK TO LUCASTA, [ON] GOING TO THE WARS by RICHARD LOVELACE IMAGES: 2 by RICHARD ALDINGTON THE BIRTHDAY CROWN by WILLIAM ALEXANDER (1824-1911) LYSISTRATA: HOW THE WOMEN WILL STOP WAR by ARISTOPHANES VALENTINE'S DAY by CHARLES BURNEY |