for your cadaverous jaw and thin lips, for your meticulous fingers lighting cigarette after cigarette, for your body bone sleek and for speed
What does it mean to be a voice
when what I say will be said
again or rather is being said
even now by another?
Wisteria hangs in great dollops
from the treetops,
the faint purple drapery
escorting me to Aiken and Camden
On the day my mother died, I unplugged
the stereo at a time when record clubs
still sent out their selections of the month
A wide open space to show off your original poetry, your favorite copyright-free poem, or any thoughts that you wish to share about poetry.
Put your poetry here, poetic people.
When they came, they took the house. They let me and my sisters live in the basement. My father died of hunger. (Sasha, 1942)