|A postcard from Paris' Shakespeare & Company|
She does not believe even in herself --
the first prismatic glimpse
of scale caught in the bathroom
mirror, flake of rainbow
she mistakes for a weird scab
Given to picking, she takes the Bic
to it, but it bleeds blue and doubles.
Another, another --
From there to here's a blur. Sky
-scraper horizons then anemone
fields, jellyfish swirling as snow
once did -- carillon orchestras
without noise. It is this absence
of sound she loves and misses
most -- jackhammer at dawn,
another screaming child.
Somehow she made it to the sea.
Something carried her -- full-finned.
I can't even hear myself think
she'd complained, the mystery
now tones as a steal beam
drum: Will I survive? This current
I'm riding, does it feel? Tunnel
of water through water
Mist and foam, white travel.
There is some place we belong.
Lauren Goodwin Slaughter
from a lesson in smallness*
*this book of poetry came in the mail the other day. I ordered it on the advice of someone, but I can't remember who told me about it. Are you out there? Did I read about this beautiful book somewhere? Where? I love it.
Reader, what are you doing?