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Laure-Anne Bosselaar
Laure-Anne Bosselaar
Laure-Anne Bosselaar grew up in Belgium and moved to the United States...
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FURTHER READING
Poems about Loss
Affirmation
by Donald Hall
Ashes
by Paula Meehan
Burning the Old Year
by Naomi Shihab Nye
Catastrophe Theory III
by Mary Jo Bang
Challenger
by Lyrae Van Clief-Stefanon
Dove, Interrupted
by Lucie Brock-Broido
Etta's Elegy
by Maureen Seaton
from Projection
by Lidija Dimkovska
Haunted
by Naomi Shihab Nye
Headaches
by Marilyn Hacker
Heavy Summer Rain
by Jane Kenyon
I Found Her Out There
by Thomas Hardy
I'll Try to Tell You What I Know
by Martha Serpas
Loss
by Carl Adamshick
Making Apple Sauce with my Dead Grandmother
by Bianca Stone
On Disappearing
by Major Jackson
please advise stop [I was dragging a ladder slowly over stones stop]
by Rusty Morrison
Radar Data #12
by Lytton Smith
Song ["When I am dead, my dearest"]
by Christina Rossetti
Stairway to Heaven
by Alison Hawthorne Deming
the lost baby poem
by Lucille Clifton
The Power of the Dog
by Rudyard Kipling
To My Oldest Friend, Whose Silence Is Like a Death
by Lloyd Schwartz
Token Loss
by Kay Ryan
When They Die We Change Our Minds About Them
by Jennifer Michael Hecht
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Room in Antwerp

 
by Laure-Anne Bosselaar

Dust covers the window, but light slips through—
it always does—through dust or cracks or under doors.

Every day at dusk, the sun, through branches,
hits a river's bend & sends silver slivers to the walls.

                        No one's there to see this. No one.
But it dances there anyway, that light,

        & when the wind weaves waves into the water
it's as if lit syllables quivered on the bricks.

        Then the sun sinks, swallowed by the dark. In that dark
more dust, always more dust
                        settles—sighs over everything.

There is no silence there, something always stirs
not far away. Small rags of noise.

Rilke said most people will know only a small corner of their room.

I read this long ago & still don't know how to understand
that word only, do you?

                        Where are you? I think of you so often
and search for you in every face that comes between me & dust,
me & dusk—first love, torn corner from this life.
About this poem:

"Not long ago I re-read a poem I return to often, 'The Previous Occupant' by Agha Shahid Ali, and it made me think of the fate of those lit places we leave behind as we move on with our lives—or because of our lives. I wrote this poem remembering a tiny room I loved very much, on the top floor of an old house in Antwerp, near the Scheldt river."

—Laure-Anne Bosselaar






Copyright 2013 by Laure-Anne Bosselaar. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-A-Day on May 30, 2013. Browse the Poem-A-Day archive.
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