May 25, 2013

That Now Are Wild And Do Not Remember

by David Ferry 

Where did you go to, when you went away? 
It is as if you step by step were going 
Someplace elsewhere into some other range
Of speaking, that I had no gift for speaking, 
Knowing nothing of the language of that place
To which you went with naked foot at night 
Into the wilderness there elsewhere in the bed, 
Elsewhere somewhere in the house beyond my seeking. 
I have been so dislanguaged by what happened 
I cannot speak the words that somewhere you 
Maybe were speaking to others where you went.
Maybe they talk together where they are, 
Restlessly wandering, along the shore,
Waiting for a way to cross the river. 

May 14, 2013

The Thrift Shop Dresses

by Frannie Lindsay
I slid the white louvers shut so I could stand in your closet
a little while among the throng of flowered dresses
you hadn’t worn in years, and touch the creases
on each of their sleeves that smelled of forgiveness
and even though you would still be alive a few more days
I knew they were ready to let themselves be
packed into liquor store boxes simply
because you had asked that of them,
and dropped at the door of the Salvation Army
without having noticed me
wrapping my arms around so many at once
that one slipped a big padded shoulder off of its hanger
as if to return the embrace.