Printer Friendly


Sunday dusk. Inside the rooms everything in its place like a regiment readied for sleep after an uneventful day. In the kitchen the cat gnaws on the last fishbone closing the circle of tranquility.

Autumn rays touch Our faces with ash. Bent, we ravel up the tale of our lives. The lunatic goes to thank the saint for her cure. The whore with the high rump slips through the husband's door. No one knows if the knifegrinder sharpens his blade for a killing. The priest shares his secrets with the coffinmaker. The sea stirs itself with melon husks and ancient shipwreck.

The bells ring for evening prayer. Each gust of wind drops a cluster of mulberry leaves on the pharmacy's tin roof. What lies between us and that noble queen? She on the palace stair waiting for the sentinels of victory We, spinning dreamthreads to the moon to hang ourselves on.
COPYRIGHT 1993 World Poetry, Inc.
No portion of this article can be reproduced without the express written permission from the copyright holder.
Copyright 1993 Gale, Cengage Learning. All rights reserved.

Article Details
Printer friendly Cite/link Email Feedback
Author:Bita, Lili; Zaller, Robert
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:May 1, 1993
Previous Article:The Debut.
Next Article:Poem on a line by Parra.

Terms of use | Copyright © 2017 Farlex, Inc. | Feedback | For webmasters