Tuesday, August 23, 2011

Oh, how I wish I could write like this....

This Bell Like a Bee Striking

Exactly, thought.  Here she is having a mind.
A moon ghastly light on a person.  To suffer
emotion, throat stiff, child grown.  Larger.
A whole.  Summoned so one can have a look.
Summoned to husband what has happened. 

The light challenged the powers
of feeling:  frightening, exhilarating, surprise,
shame.  It was over.  Plaster and litter alone.
Five acts that had been
over and over.  A strange power of speaking.

Some concern for the half-past.  Ring after ring
like something coming.  It is a thought,
this bell like a bee striking.
The future lies in a patter like wood drummed.
A sensual traffic: what, where, and why.

Three emotions.  Shutters and avenues.
The red burning.  A lizard's color in her eyes.
evening wearing the fringes in the windows.
The light wavering in the darkness streets.
Atoms turned.  Thinking like the pulse -

punctually, noiselessly silk-stockinged.
Ridiculous.  Her mother grown big.
She, like most mothers, a swept shuffle
of traffic and dress and nothing
except the flutter of absolution.

Such are things merged.  The cupboard outline
becomes soft.  A table.  Cigarette smoke.
A baby bright pink.  Daring with being.
That dog.  Lots of coldness.  Yet, some power
to preside in her head, with her shoulders,

through dinner,  A sort of maternal politics,
Her dress disappearing.  Sweeping off for bed
with headaches.  Still, the sun.  The squirrels.
Pebbles to the pebble collection.  She blinks
at the crack of a twig behind the bedroom walls.

- Mary Jo Bang

from Mother:  Women's Studies Quarterly.  Vol 37, # 3/4, Fall/Winter 2009.

No comments:

Post a Comment