sitting at her table,
she'd put out a tray
of cups, and saucers,
tea in a porcelain pot,
hard butter and blueberry
jam as black and blue
as midnight without
moon and with deliberate
strokes, i watched the
roped veins, long
and bruised beneath
her skin, down her arms
and hands, she'd butter
a slice of thick bread,
all the while thinking,
her lips pursed, forming
a thought about what
she had read, there was
a slowness to it all that
made my feet tap, i had
faster things to say,
young thoughts, but i
couldn't lead, i had
to follow, and listen
to what she thought of the
poem i had given her to read.
and in this way we'd
spend the morning, her
house still needing to
be painted, the drop cloths
covering her furniture,
all of which could wait.
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2 comments:
This is very beautifully written. The hard butter, the roped veins, long and bruised beneath her skin. This is the kind of stuff you read in very well-written novels. You manage to synthesize it and make it available to your readers in a poem. It is like a very tasty hors d'ouvre. I've read this one many times because I like the picture it paints. Thank you for this.
I agree. Very visual. Very nice.
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