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Sandpaper, Bone and Grace
by Jasmine Sword-Mannthe orchids will die:
all purple and white,
then brown,
whithering into sandpaper
and bone.
outside the crow
answers the raven's call:
shrill and dying
as the last echoes fade,
as I shut Bukowski's ghost closed;
write, he says, write.
I was a poet once,
writing cracked words
between skin, sinew
and grace.
but now
what's
left?
somewhere between
shopping lists, doctor's appointments
and 3 a.m.,
I was a woman:
all legs and hips and breasts,
bone and grace.
I was,
once.
and now what's left
of orchids,
of Bukowski?
they were,
once.
who weeps for their ghosts?
who weeps for mine? 10/26/2007 Author's Note: Published in the Winter 2009-2010 Vol. 2, Num. 3 issue of The Tower Journal (published as Jasmine Mann).
Posted on 03/28/2010
Copyright © 2024 Jasmine Sword-Mann
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Gabriel Ricard on 05/11/12 at 05:47 PM "outside the crow
answers the raven's call:
shrill and dying
as the last echoes fade,
as I shut Bukowski's ghost closed;
write, he says, write."--And keep writing. The ghosts are always listening. At least that's what I always believe. Well done indeed. |
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