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lispectorstreetPoems
Dallas days, smoking in your acura legend, your face veiled, watery eyes. Tom, I asked you to teach me poetry. You opened your dictionaries of devotion - for me to run away, again. Under a weeping willow, we dug a hole for a time capsule. Our lives were small enough for this rusty lunchbox. See, mine was never a kids’ drawing on the refrigerator, but a western, a shoot-em-up. Can you understand, just a little, how it was home I was running towards? And still, in strange places I spoke your language of tenderness, my extinct mother tongue. With words so ordinary, so simple. Those memories                   the warmth of you make it hard to imagine  that you are buried somewhere in Iowa. I revisited that cow pasture with our tree, my hands clawing at the frozen earth to get time back. Tom, you promised me poetry, yet all I can write is please come back to me in a hundred variations. How I long to bargain your soul for mine. Your little toy airplane, the one you gave me when we were kids, still stands on my nightstand. This time let me teach you about the cruelty of freedom.
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Jul 15, 2019
Jul 15, 2019 at 12:39 PM UTC
Kate's Toy Airplane (2019)
Dallas days, smoking in your acura legend, your face veiled, watery eyes. Tom, I asked you to teach me poetry. You opened your dictionaries of devotion - for me to run away, again. Under a weeping willow, we dug a hole for a time capsule. Our lives were small enough for this rusty lunchbox. See, mine was never a kids’ drawing on the refrigerator, but a western, a shoot-em-up. Can you understand, just a little, how it was home I was running towards? And still, in strange places I spoke your language of tenderness, my extinct mother tongue. With words so ordinary, so simple. Those memories                   the warmth of you make it hard to imagine  that you are buried somewhere in Iowa. I revisited that cow pasture with our tree, my hands clawing at the frozen earth to get time back. Tom, you promised me poetry, yet all I can write is please come back to me in a hundred variations. How I long to bargain your soul for mine. Your little toy airplane, the one you gave me when we were kids, still stands on my nightstand. This time let me teach you about the cruelty of freedom.
Rendition of my poem "Kate's Toy Airplane." This corresponds to something I call poetry in motion – poetry that is not fixed but fluid, there is no such thing as a finished poem. Like O'Keefe who painted her patio, again and again and again.
#grief#death#loss#love#poetry#in#motion#rewrite
lispectorstreet
Written by
lispectorstreet
23/Cologne
Jul 15, 2019
Jul 15, 2019 at 12:39 PM UTC
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