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Lyn is an accomplished poet, responsible for over 100 books. Winner of the Jack Kerouac Award, among others, she's been Poet In Residence at a few colleges, taught writing courses, and has been editor for four women writers anthologies. Visit her site. |
© 2009 Lyn Lifshin
NOT COLD, BABY NO
but lava. that
strangeness, wanting,
not sure, wanting
the strangeness. Here
mounds of the darkest
grey, the cold,
scars. Your words,
a quilt
THE DREAM OF WISHING I HAD A GUN
it’s not that early,
cove light thru
Venetian blinds.
Then, there’s a noise,
a jolt. It’s the day
someone has a key
but this can’t
be her. It’s just
wrong. I break out
in terror. There’s
this bald man and a
woman in CVS
that could be a
Halloween costume
for a sexy maid. Some
thing’s wrong.
Delilah couldn’t have
sent them. No, she’d
let me know. They
are burglars or
murderers. I’m not
sure if they’ve seen me,
don’t have Delilah’s
number and with
the middle of the night,
loud faxes or a phone
you can’t turn the
ringer off. I tossed the
phone, there is no way
to get out, no one to
wake up next to me and
thru the sliver of
the door, just the bald
man’s gloves
WHAT WAS IT THAT LAST AFTERNOON
A Sunday, all day on the
floor near my mother’s
hospital bed. The films
we watched blur. Were
they comedies? tragedies?
No one supposed it was
the last day. Her phone
installed 2 or 3 days
before. No exhausting
August days. On one, I
fell asleep over coffee in
the French bakery. Beet
soup, a little ground up
Demerol, making sure the
white powder doesn’t
float. That last night she
was starved, roast chicken,
even pizza and then, skinny
as a school girl on the
phone with relatives, a
college friend. A full day
and she wasn’t even
tired, talked of another
trip to the mall. I slept
when the night nurse
came sure these Sundays
would stretch out,
sure Thanksgiving would
be around the bed in the
orange rooms with the
cat on the sill and
never that the cat would
know, slink away for
the first time
All work is property of Lyn Lifshin.
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