Poetry | March 01, 2007
Poetry Feature: Laura Kasischke
Featuring the poems:
- My father’s mansion
- More and tinier [Featured as Poem of the Week, May 8, 2008]
- Prayer on bus
- The Suicide
- Rural husband
More and tinier
A long green thread unraveled from a dress, picked up by the wind, caught in the branch of a tree:
Not even my aging body belongs to me.
My heart made of strangeness and cells. The sleeping salamander of my spleen. That miraculous, ancient needle threading a dress through a tree. It is one kind of difficulty to be the thread. Another to be the needle. Hardest of all, the tree.
Every day, I become more and tinier. Eat less. Think before I speak. On Sunday, after sex, I remember the boats speeding across the water, propelled wildly by the lightest breeze, their sails swollen with it, still blowing on a summer Sunday through my memory. Oh, those boats, this is what they mean.
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