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Things I Still Want To Tell You1We were like slowly awakening pears, lasting into winter, desert pears, dry and ripening slowly. During those last three years, I learned to talk to you gently, you learned to listen, to ask me about my poetry. 2 I think of you when there's thunder out here, but it still doesn't rain. The night it did rain, and the power went out, we sat on your bed in the dark, talking of our childhoods, years apart, how thunder used to scare you, how daddy and you would make love until the storm passed. 3 The other night I bought fish and knew what I wanted; you would have been proud of me, buying the way you used to buy, asking questions, talking with the fish man-- I'm almost fifty, finally self-assured. 4 Think how much you could have taught me, if you had slowed us down with a kiss, in the kitchen, in the store saying, this is a strong fish, this one bakes or broils well... 5 Yesterday I put on the t-shirt that young Hillery made for you with your name in bead letters; I wanted to wear what had been yours next to my skin, wear your name next to me all day. 6 Schooled in pain, but born to laugh at the same time, I have a part of your smile, and know how to do small stitches. Having found you and lost you-- other deaths may be easier. 7 I keep your will, your leather wallet, your bowl, with the fine crack in it, your favorite knife. The disappointments I wanted you to forget, may they have been burned to condensed ashes like many of your bones; a year ago in snow, we sent you down the stream. 8 May what I should have said follow you, may it knit you back together in transparency, may the light shine through you, may we go our separate ways in peace, may we pass in deep silence, Mother. |
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Issue #6, January, 1999 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.