Tuesday, September 20, 2005

poem w/a long title

From an Author to Her Child
on writing

I have written a tome, a lexis
to define this vocabulary of pain,
and with the aged leather of my palms
I have bound the words and held them near,

as swaddled infants
in the darkness,
where comfort and clarity

are elusive.

Bent-backed silence
has borne witness to the gilt
that edges each page,
and the font has faded
from nights of restless fingering:

your lip at my breast,

the curve of an ear,
a lock of ebony.

But memories refuse to fade.
They seep, instead, like ink,
into the ridges of my fingertips
where text does grief no justice.

Tagged: , , , ,

1 comment:

  1. I enjoyed the play on words in this, but I think I'm poemed out about loss for the moment. I'm hoping that the writing has been something of a catharsis for you, but I want some lightheartedness for a bit. You know I'm here if you ever need me...