Today's poem is by Mary Jo Bang
Where
In this cicada city, we are dead,
We are quiet, we are home.
Here, you belongTo me. I, to you. The trees lurch
Toward later summer, reach
Toward the windowWhere glass makes a mirror
Of the sitting. Lightning forks.
All directions lead to my empty headBent over a box of cicatrix ash.
My mothering lips are stitched
Shut by sorrow.What was once a mind
Is pried open.
Look, doctor, at the tangleOf synapse
Where the pearl should be.
And then, distraction The pink Mobius Strip dips down
And begins its torturous twist.
The current catchesThe tree and drags me forward
Toward some mute missing beginning.
Copyright © 2006 Mary Jo Bang All rights reserved
from Runes
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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