Agrred. And not just because you took one of my minor suggestions.
jd
On Tue, Jul 15, 2008 at 11:56 PM, M. Borges Accardi <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
> Nice. Really nice
>
> :)
>
> Really like the new ending.
>
>
> -----Original Message-----
> From: sharon brogan <[log in to unmask]>
> To: [log in to unmask]
> Sent: Tue, 15 Jul 2008 8:35 pm
> Subject: Re: another snap -- July 11, 02008 REVISION (#1, I'm betting on
> more...)
>
>
>
> OK -- once more:
>
> It's a dark night,
> a slight moon.
>
> The scar remains,
> pale silent stitches
>
> from wrist past elbow.
> She held herself
>
> together. She healed.
> They used a saw
>
> to remove the cast.
> It screamed.
>
> She wakes in the breeze
> of the ceiling fan,
>
> sinks into deep
> mattresses; the sweetness
>
> of strawberries; tart lemon cake;
> the full scent of grass, just mowed,
>
> lying down on its own fresh self;
> the soft underwater feel of tree-
>
> shaded rooms. Even the taste
> of mountain fires,
>
> smoke in her mouth.
> Even that pleases her.
>
>
>
>
> On Tue, Jul 15, 2008 at 10:45 AM, sharon brogan <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
>
> >
> >
> > They used a saw to remove
> > the cast. It screamed. The scar
> >
> > remains, pale silent stitches
> > from wrist past elbow.
> >
> > She held herself
> > together. She healed, his absence
> >
> > a pallid emptiness.
> > It's a dark night, a slight moon.
> >
> > She wakes in the breeze
> > of the ceiling fan.
> >
> > She sinks into deep
> > mattresses; the sweetness
> >
> > of strawberries on tart lemon cake;
> > the full scent of grass, just mowed,
> >
> > lying down on its own fresh self;
> > the soft underwater feel of a tree-
> >
> > shaded room. Even the smoke
> > from mountain fires,
> >
> > the taste of ashes in her mouth.
> > Even that pleases her, reminds her
> >
> > that she lives.
> > --
> >
> >
> > ~ SB | http://www.sbpoet.com |
> >
> >
> > On Sat, Jul 12, 2008 at 10:37 AM, sharon brogan <[log in to unmask]>
> wrote:
> >
> >>
> >> Quite young, I broke my arm.
> >> Old now, still the scar remains,
> >> a pale and silent remnant, like
> >> small white stitches from wrist
> >> past elbow. They used a saw
> >> to remove the cast.
> >>
> >> It screamed. Your leaving
> >> was like an invisible limb ripped
> >> from my body, torn flesh, no neat
> >> scalpel wound. I held myself
> >> together. I healed. All that's left
> >> is the suggestion of a scar, a pallid
> >>
> >> emptiness. I wake in the night
> >> to write this, in the breeze
> >> of the ceiling fan. It's a dark night,
> >> a slight moon. Chill approaches
> >> the record low for this hot month
> >> by human reckoning. I have
> >>
> >> softened, comfort is my pleasure
> >
> > now, passion a fading mark
> >> in memory, sensuality its remnant.
> >> Deep mattresses; the sweetness
> >> of strawberries on tart lemon cake;
> >> the full scent of grass, just mowed,
> >>
> >> lying down on its own fresh self;
> >> the soft underwater feel of a tree-
> >> shaded room. Even the smoke from
> >> mountain fires, the taste of ashes
> >> in my mouth. Even that pleases me,
> >> reminds me that I live.
> >>
> >>
> >
>
--
Joseph Duemer
Professor of Humanities
Clarkson University
Weblog: sharpsand.net
|