Catherine Owen
Poem on an interrupted line by Brodsky
Darling you think it’s love she speaks to herself
in the mirror as the procession is going past, the awful tubas
and the pale mandolins, swallows are circling the rooftops
before diving back into their nests as if they had forgotten
it is winter, the kettle is probably on but why this second person
agenda, that saccharine nom de plume? You could forgive
her for getting older, but for still sporting a skirt above
her shins, for dying her hair aubergine, for imagining
herself boarding a train to meet him, all the way out
in Holysville, is inexcusable, beyond the pale, as her mother
used to say, and what does she think, that he’ll be there,
bouquet in hand, natty tie knotted firmly? O no darling
you think it’s love but it’s just another midnight journey.
No Comments so far ↓
There are no comments yet...Kick things off by filling out the form below.