Wednesday, April 7, 2010

Easter, 1985

Usually I tell people I write "everything but poetry."

To hell with my anti-genre-identity, it's National Poetry Month.

Easter, 1985

A tiny blonde

wearing a bonnet,
I am nearly six years old.
My lips press together
in a half-smile.

Now, I recognize it;
the half-smile my mother wore
when she lied.

She told one lie.
She told it to everyone.
She told it all the time.

Look at this child with a liar's face,
me the child
learning to announce
my contented well-being
to some abstract audience
God or family, mother only, or camera.
Always good, my mother.
Always good, her daughter.
Good then.
Thank you.
Yes, please.
Ribbon under chin.

My grandmother's gnarled hands
still make lace.
My mother and I,
we now bare our teeth.

1 comment:

  1. From Joel via Google Buzz:

    eager and entranced. leonic. it makes me ask: what is an audience? (think foucault, what is an author?) it makes me ask questions about concrete abstract audiences and "ideal" abstract audiences, and how we imagine ourselves authoring, and before whose faces and ears we want our ideas and actions and poems adjudicated. whose history is it? who's writing? whom do we want to win?