Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2012 v11n1
an online journal of literature and the arts
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Said Agatha


Remember       the long drive     dawn soft as a mallet
croquet hives echoing      earth   unafraid to stare
into its own black circuitries     Oh gentle
oak     old stranded or rather      a spirit
making of my mouth     canary-colored fall

That was never like her   smiling       us a river
forever compass blown upon   the damp house
somewhere       that dreadful-loving Agatha     We took her doors
for ourselves     her hen-traveled hands     humming
We were the furniture again     the maples
lovely car-printed grandchildren     afraid to be heard
under and swimming      pieces   of the swarming clouds
the north news      comfort of a weeping lawn
then out the warm halls          Still a river at the door
the gilded shout       a thought slipped through
A crack   said Agatha   a crack


It was the next long gentle     Said Agatha
Sure it was a cellar
A path where nothing happened
but the swing jumped to life
What would a long wait feel like
its confused arms around us     Said Agatha
We stumble upon   the bits and pieces

It was a lot      A big round house
drifted   between the textured storm
and dad who sometimes       lay awake
when summer nights leaned west
The dim long halls     peered roller-ended
round their corners    Said Agatha
Yes   all day yes     amidst the mourning rooms
Yes said Agatha   her shouting eyes
touched hands    a week of bone
a gentle flow of humors
deep as the driven day is deep
as the children ran her soft
hours through    Said Agatha God hears us


And I had one gold mitten
clenched     It longed to whip
wore an immense watch
Said Agatha     Alright   it is for sure for sure
You’ll want your own eyes
Women     a lasting long     a gentle
package of threes

Said Agatha    Be beautiful
Not only did she lie in that covered
sarcophagus     A raw lid in lazuli
an amethystine seventy-seven
She stopped up our breaths
necks craned     pockets full of gems   shredded napkins
And the felled pine planks   that comely woman
baked dry in our mummy mouth
Then our mouth was an open river     Agatha came
upon our masts and   delicate   mourned
This was the first     the next
the long gentle  end  

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