forgetting her -------------------------------------------
the touch of white on
surprisingly strong clouds
has settled down to shaven legs
all silk, proud-breasted in black stockings
parts of autumn like tossed curled brown
as greying hair show in the dark
to make a vaguely etched form.
What will he remember?
no stockings, only a broken doll
with the effort of shaping
I enjoy the vulneribility of this piece and how it draws me in. I like how this gives me a message but questions me at the same time. This gives me images like a lonely grandma in a rocking chair with nobody around here and remembering what she was.
The metaphors was just amazing especially the first two lines.;)
I read this and think about aging... I don't want to grow old, even though I know it happens. I kinda get all panicky and freak out at the thought my hair will turn white and my body will break down. Maybe I will be long dead before I become that little slow sad woman on the bus that holds her ugly purse too tight and smiles like she isn't sure or not if someone is going to help her or shoot her when they meet her eyes. I don't know. This messes with my head. Which makes it a good write that is effective. But it really messes with my head.
I keep thinking about this one
as time runs on and we change
as she my lover might change
is a woman forgotten as she ages
or does her memory become suffused
with a patina of the perfection that used to
be. When my lover is an old fossil dressing
her bones what will I remember I think
I will see her with eyes of love and she
will retain her beauty in a rarified form
that no other person could attain