A Girl Gets Sick of a Rose by Amy Woolard When I asked for a pencil, they gave me a rattle. When I asked for a hammer, they gave me a kiss. All mongrel, no matter, I’ll stay out past dinner; I’ve practiced the answers to all of their tests. I’ve given up sweets, their ridiculous shapes, Their instructions on which ones have cherries. Everything under the sun is lukewarm; The poppies are blooming with worry. When they gave me a map, I thought they were done, I thought I could take off my dress. They told me one town was as good as another, Sent me packing, all fiddle, no case. Each cul-de-sac greyed like a cooled blown bulb: All dashboard, all driver, all sky & no cake, Each neighborhood gatehouse, a live empty socket. When they asked for my ticket, I gave them a wink. The instructions all listed Step One as Repeat; The poppies were planted in rows at the park. I lived on a circle, then moved onto a square, Then wandered back into the kitchen half-drunk. The screen door, the scrim, the latch, the last word. The glass throats of each vase open wide. A house is the largest tombstone we make; We keep walking, grateful, inside.
Posted on: Mon, 14 Jul 2014 08:37:59 +0000
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