Saturday, February 28, 2009
I don't think this is a world for women.
I don't know. If I have a granddaughter
she may have an exceptional life.
There will be snow on the lockets, and petals
on the slim shoes. There will be other acres.
A different foliage on the islands and music
coming from places she says resemble rooms. High
arches, perhaps, not Gothic. That was in my
time. The edges were in my time and the squint
of the elevators ascending, we knew not where.
There were gifts in my time. Gulls, sheaves, roofs
hair falling in place there by the chimney.
Falling down by the wall in the wind.
So much was held back. The uneven stones.
Brown rain with pebbles catching its breath.
Inside each breast the inscription placed
like a clock. With the memory of a clock
and its torture.
The hands were yours, never mine.
The continent repeated its little whistle and spun
around. The continent was told it was made of sugar
and ice. The continent was an idea of yours.
So was the weather and the months.
The years belonged to you because you discovered them.
You taught us to tell time.
If I have a granddaughter
may she stand outside a telephone booth,
may she have her private telephone,
may she never wish to use the telephone,
may she own the telephone company,
may she be the long distance or the receiver,
may she sleep with a telephone,
may she say goodbye on the telephone.
may she be lucky and be a telephone.
:via Memory Book
:girl pointing at sky via flickr