Outsider poem
BOY. PARENT’S ROOM. FIRST EXPLORATION. 1971
Light from the window is the color of linen
and the satin underthings hang like earings upon the dresser.
Atomizer, ribblet, shoehorn,
gossamer scarf, and rings, rings, rings.
The wineglass moons upon the stain, and the wineglass itself
like a masticated spider turned up in the dust.
Where is father? There is no sign, his dresser as bare as a button,
shoes tucked like so many dead men under the bed.
The books have been replaced with magazines
curled up at the ends like smoke.
And her ashtray is stale, and printed from her thumb
smeared with make-up, powder, blush, blush, and blush.
It is still
The air dull, almost as if it were an instrument
that had not been tuned for years.
He dares not open the closet, for fear
of moth spider wing and bat, and instead runs his fingers
across her pearls, her stones, her bracelet
made of bone. He is sniffing the wineglass
when downstairs someone stirs a knocking
and backwards returns, only later
at dinner is he aware of secret moments,
pounding bed, crumpled tissues, silence.
note: I like much of this...and the tone...definetly one to revist.
BOY. PARENT’S ROOM. FIRST EXPLORATION. 1971
Light from the window is the color of linen
and the satin underthings hang like earings upon the dresser.
Atomizer, ribblet, shoehorn,
gossamer scarf, and rings, rings, rings.
The wineglass moons upon the stain, and the wineglass itself
like a masticated spider turned up in the dust.
Where is father? There is no sign, his dresser as bare as a button,
shoes tucked like so many dead men under the bed.
The books have been replaced with magazines
curled up at the ends like smoke.
And her ashtray is stale, and printed from her thumb
smeared with make-up, powder, blush, blush, and blush.
It is still
The air dull, almost as if it were an instrument
that had not been tuned for years.
He dares not open the closet, for fear
of moth spider wing and bat, and instead runs his fingers
across her pearls, her stones, her bracelet
made of bone. He is sniffing the wineglass
when downstairs someone stirs a knocking
and backwards returns, only later
at dinner is he aware of secret moments,
pounding bed, crumpled tissues, silence.
note: I like much of this...and the tone...definetly one to revist.
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