two from Mercedes Lawry
Sometimes it’s all backward living
In the spoiled mirror, a broken-down face
that cannot take more sorrow, but falls,
sags, pulls air in unwillingly.
Best to keep in motion.
Out the backdoor onto the porch, down (again)
the steps and whaddya know,
a palmful of stars, bitty white lights
that will fool you. Drive a fast car,
swim into the spoony night,
give up your ghost and the uncles of your ghosts
and memory lane and tidal surges.
In the depths of the soul, well,
what can you hear? Echo?
Testing 1-2-3? Nothing at all?
Close your eyes and listen to some banjo.
You’re not the last to feel this way.
Contributors Notes
the jest at the end of a life
how it might be seen
how it might be missed
sooty rain from the coal days
laundry that ticked on the line
the rough wood of clothes-pins,
their perfect shape
mouths empty of teeth
rivers veining every which way
catalog lust
the body but a crazy map
the folds soft as baby skin,
thinning, as does the border
