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literature

Turning to poetry

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fernknits

Published: Oct 8, 2013

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Literature Text

Grandmother entertains me

in her lap, with verses on swings

and counterpanes, cats of Kilkenny

and crushed eggs. I am small

as an egg fragment, small as the pile

of fur from the cats, small as a toy soldier

on the bedclothes,

small in the air so blue.

The tree lights blink, and I understand

that next year she will fly to me

and do this all again.

II.

In the grotto, by the academic buildings,

I write bad poems but tight,

succinct, and cryptic. What happened

since her death is nobody's privy.

Rife with innuendo, my poems

bite off the angst I live with

day to day, invoking struggles

with boys and personal struggles.

No one gets them.

I rest my head against

the venerable mossy stones.

III.

Working at the kitchen table,

I quick outline poems

that get covered in fresh

strawberry juice, words running

stickily down the page.

Spring is my favorite season,

and summer next. I carry

jam jars down cellar, stack them

in the ordered rows I want

my days to have. I pick up

the pencil again, to recall

her love in winter.

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