White Clothes
A poem by Juliet Powys
This is not the weather for white clothes.
The sky is white and he is buried -
We need anchoring.
(this dead Christmas arm
Slides bonelessly around the house
Coiled like a garden hose
Pressed up against the windows
Cutting off our oxygen)
There used to be places where
You could not be seen
Standing up :
Behind the apple tree, but it's bald now
Or next to the fishpond, if it was raining.
Now the garden is waist-high -
Nothing has taken.
And I crawl, palm-flat
Over the frozen black ground
Behind the sad dead Christmas tree like a bad dream in
a prayer.
Spring 2007 Poetry:
FEATURED POET: Anna Russell
EDITOR'S CHOICE: Deepak Kapur
LAYMEN OF HISTORY by Ananda Osel
A GOOD HIMALAYAN MORNING by Nitin Das Rai
NOW 2 by Leonard Gontarek
WINNING by Miles Christian Daniels
WHITE CLOTHES by Juliet Powys
BREAKDOWN by DB Cox
THE DANCER by Tabitha Anderson
SHADY SMILES by Rikku
THE WOMAN GIRL by Brittany Jungck
A POEM OF THE NIGHT by Michael Lee Johnson
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