How lucky to long.
Interior
want him here
want him lie down in dirt
want him dusk and drunk
blame the egg blame the fractured stones
at the bottom of the mind
blame his darkblue glare and craggy mug
the bulky king of trudge and beer stein
how I love a masculine in my parlor
his grizzly shout and weight one hundred drums
in this everywhere of blunt and soft sinking
I am the heavy hollow snared
the days are spring the days are summer
the days are nothing and not dead yet
I in my inhale my red and my coursing
I have no other life than this
Deborah LandauThe Cincinnati Review
3 comments:
Oooohh, I read this on Poetry Daily, and it made me want to work on poems again. So glad to see it here!
You could work on poems if you would ever respond to my prompts, Sister.
You're right. Check your email when you get back from AWP. Right now, I'm too busy watching television to write poems. A girl has her priorities.
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