How many years now?
Nigh on seven
or seventeen…
twenty-seven, a sign
with the lettering in
a state of decay, almost
gone…kids, grown, but
not away. Why I wanted
to come back
here is a mystery.
I said to her,
the driving friend,
also a Mom:
“You know, I think
the wallet--in the purse--
the wallet is the new
Vagina. They come out
that widened passage
with searing pain…
now, the virtual hand asks
or insinuates for more,
and I’m not even dead!"
"Those childish fingers
I kissed and held, walking
across the street,
just slip in
my Grandmother-sweet-remaindered-opening
to pull out denominations
of my monetary soul-like “self”
cast in paper, coins and hope...
leaving me broke and alone."
She stopped the car,
looked at me with that
sad face I have grown to love,
shook her head,
and turned the car around.
Camp Nye, a nothing now
in the rear view mirror
as we round each mountain bend,
and I'm feeling
a perfect topographic
parallel to the day --coming down --
with head back, eyes-closed,
accumulating miles,
held sleepily
somewhere between helpless rage
and those towering pines and clouds...
descending a narrow road
that connects present and past
in total-communicating-silence
back to our separate homes.
held sleepily
somewhere between helpless rage
and those towering pines and clouds...
descending a narrow road
that connects present and past
in total-communicating-silence
back to our separate homes.
Kay Weeks, content/photos
5.5.12 and written for an online HCC course, Melody Gough instructor. She encourages her students to share and to enter contests.
Falling through trees. |
6 comments:
While I haven't had this experience, I think it is a true rendition of many women's--and men's--experience. Good job. Good for Melody for encouraging you and good for you. Sharing true, deep feelings is what poetry is all about.
Lora R.
Seattle
An honest poem by an honest poet.
Danielle W.
San Francisco
Beautiful and heartwrenching and vulnerable and true, Kay, as usual. You are an incredible poet/artist.
Monica W.
Portland, OR
nice one.
ww
I liked the poem about wallets as a metaphor for vaginas....only you could have come up with that wonderful idea. Good one.
Kaye K.
California
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