From the window the river rinses
the dark. I twist
the wedding beads around my neck. Iíve lost
my ring, silver and antique, bought from the night market
in the other world across
the ocean, color of dull lead,
color of the pan I scrub and burn
in the sink.
Catullus wrote, I hate and love, and he wasnít talking about marriage.
Not talking about the blacked-out
window crossed with hurricane tape,
like a movie screen, a page redacted,
your hand erasing a blackboard
with an eraserís soft compliant body.
|About this poem:|
"For the past year, I've been working on a series of poems about marriage. Marriage as slant, marriage looked at askew. Marriage as a translation, its language taken from the most unlikely sources I can find: Latin poets, scraps of paper from the subway, lyrics to songs that have nothing to do with love. It's been so much fun exploring metaphor this way and forcing myself out of myself, out of my writing habits."