I realize that my last few posts have been, to say the least, less than uplifting. I apologize for that. This week has been a little difficult, and I'm having trouble regaining my balance. Therefore, I also took last night off in order to get my bearings.
It didn't work. I'm still pissed.
However, I have a really good poem to share with you. It was originally published in the Summer 2014 issue of Rattle magazine. I read it this afternoon, and it made me happy.
Saint Marty needs more happy.
by: Tim Craven
Smaller that you thought.
More like your idea of a dog's.
You cup it softly. Your thumb fidgets
over the fissure of a temporal lobe.
You lift it up to the side of your head
and imagine your own, sitting in there--
If you were to lob it against the wall,
would it crumble or shatter
or liquefy or combust or bounce
back into your hands, intact?
When she (sixty-six, Caucasian, lymphoma)
donated it to science, was this the promised
research? You consider biting into it
as you would a peach--and, were it not
for the toxic preservative, you might.
In ten years' time you will think
what a privilege it was to hold that brain,
brim-filled with tomato soup recipes and original sin
and smells of late summer and oboe lessons
and self-taught Italian and the night sky:
The Plough, The Bear, The Big Dipper.
|Star light, star bright...|