Printer Friendly

Sister, aunt, mother of poetry comes for a visit, brings stars.

She looks for stars in the night sky pulled taut over my house, attached to the horizon like a parachute. All this falling, falling--of happiness burdened by desperate drinking and longing. She looks for the seven wives with onion breath, for the Milky Way which, say the Yokut, is dust from the race between antelope and deer, for the firelight in this burning house of Mars. But tonight cloud cover, the curtains drawn, stories taken on faith as we step inside for dinner. She checks again before dessert, and again after she reads her poems, lifeboats of language, arrays of cosmic life. As we are falling, falling, hanging on to the stars which billow and slow our descent with stories of bad breath and evictions, about loves that break at the slightest sight.
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:Swift, Doug
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:Mar 1, 1993
Words:133
Previous Article:Time.
Next Article:Memory and hope.
Topics:

Terms of use | Copyright © 2016 Farlex, Inc. | Feedback | For webmasters