May 22, 2008

Sometimes Iím Not Sure I Agree with What I Write

Sometimes Iím not sure I agree with what I write,
if the air I breathe is really and truly stale and bland
in the basement. If you have a pointed nose
like a birdís beak or eyes the shade of burnt sunflowers.
Iím at a loss as to whether our house has Victorian trim
around the windows or an art-deco kitchen, and no oneís
confirmed to my satisfaction that the door handle
jiggles because of that awful winter in 1995.

Is my father actually to be pitied?
My mother mythologized?
My version of my lost childhood anthologized?

Iíve got the sad thing down like a posture.
The weeping willows roll in when called.
The death warrants stack themselves paper upon
paper, never caught in the printer.

Sorrow is no longer unexpected. It arrives
with every breath and birdís beak and door handle. Winter
or summer, that awful feeling of it being there
whether itís already left or not.

—Priscila Uppal
____
from Live Coverage (Exile Editions, 2003)

Posted by dwaber at May 22, 2008 12:48 PM