Wednesday, September 09, 2009

A wave of deep weeping

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Wednesday In July


The stubborn weed we pulled last month returns
with a cousin proving again that roots have eyes.
Two nights ago, I massaged the back of your
neck and up along occipital places that carve
dreams into pillows. Trust lives there, you said.

So I am at a party, young people mostly, at my
cousin’s house and I ask her where her mom is.
She answers thinking I’m speaking figuratively,
one of many downsides in being a poet, saying she
carries her in her heart always and excuses herself.

I realize I’ve forgotten that she is dead and has
been so for some time, that this is my first time in
her house since she died as a wave of deep weeping
forms to rise and crash over me as I am swept
out and away into a field of quenching sunlight.

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Only later do I remember this being in a living room
with young people, tuning guitars, strumming out
the opening chords of Paint It Black, missing strings,
unable to finger it correctly, life luxuriating among
the guests as little matters with so much time ahead.

The weeds we pull today will return by August.
We will pull them anyway and blind the root by
spade or garden glove. You will come to bloom
in my bed and I will run soft hands along green
terraces, your pink shoulders trellised with trust.

Joseph Gallo
July 8, 2009


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