mn
::
poetry
Silence, Exile, and Cunning
Sitting in a small plane
while a hurricane plucked oil rigs
from the horizon, covering
faces with sheets of red and black--
I threw up all the way to Houston.
And then, three years later,
I visited my mother in California
where there was a swimming pool.
For the month, I filled a toy plane
with water, just below the surface.
Released, it paused
half-turned and slowly descended
to a scraping halt in the deep end.
Holding my breath like a
prune-fingered God until my
ears ached and the shimmering
water grew so bright blue and white
as to hide the distant plane
And then, again
the dictum strict.
Last modified: Oct 24, 2008 2:28 pm.
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