I'm never sure if I should embrace or escape the narrative, or if either are really possible. I've been nostalgic lately (ha, as of late, as if it ever stops, daily) So I'm working on this. I'm working things. I'm not sure how I feel about the voice here, although it is a hard voice to get away from when I had to work with the Norton Anthology, and also with a voice I used to work with when I studied with this book. It brings it all back. Kalamazoo, with its familiarity and a walk to school, a drive to rocket star, the back porch kale. I loved that apartment, even though we feared the cats getting out.
The Norton Anthology
Your notes in my copy,
the blur of your
die, leave, and feel, adrienne rich
(me) saying things quietly,
through metaphor. My notes
on Dickinson, your blue heart below
The cankerworm was especially damaging to roses,
I don’t even remember,
and we met, apparently
in a Shakespearean Sonnet.
Season. Time. (it stops for no one) When I see all these things
I question yer beauty,
scorn. and virtue. Why the indifferent beak of Zeus,
poor Leda, and someone else before us both
writing notes for Pound and Eliot.
A cursive pencil
up against your arrow and ink pen.
My large changing script.
your big white bed
up against all the walls,
you moved it, so uncomfortable
and how empty the glasses were left that night,
and how empty they all are now.