“Some words build houses in your throat. and they live there, content and on fire.” ~ Nayyirah Waheed

Forgot to schedule this to post yesterday . . .

Schwarm VII by Andreas Nicolas Fischer

“Schwarm VII”
by Andreas Nicolas Fischer

                   

Two for Tuesday: Imminent Loss

Year’s End

for Audre Lorde and Sonny Wainwright

Twice in my quickly disappearing forties
someone called while someone I loved and I were
making love to tell me another woman had died of cancer.

Seven years apart, and two different lovers:
underneath the numbers, how lives are braided,
how those women’s death and lives, lived and died, were
interleaved also.

Does lip touch on lip a memento mori?
Does the blood-thrust nipple against its eager
mate recall, through lust, a breast’s transformations
sometimes are lethal?

Now or later, what’s the enormous difference?
If one day is good, is a day sufficient?
Is it fear of death with which I’m so eager
to live my life out

now and in its possible permutations
with the one I love? (Only four days later,
she was on a plane headed west across the
Atlantic, work-bound.)

Men and women, mortally wounded where we
love and nourish, dying at thirty, forty,
fifty, not on barricades, but in beds of
unfulfilled promise:

tell me, senators, what you call abnormal?
Each day’s obits read as if there’s a war on.
Fifty-eight-year-old poet dead of cancer:
warrior woman

laid down with the other warrior women.
Both times when the telephone rang, I answered,
wanting not to, knowing I had to answer,
go from two bodies’

infinite approach to a crest of pleasure
through the disembodied voice from a distance
saying one loved body was clay, one wave of
mind burst and broken.

Each time we went back to each other’s hands and
mouths as to a requiem where the chorus
sings death with irrelevant and amazing
bodily music.

~ Marilyn Hacker

Jesus Rafael Soto Untitled 1959 tempera on wood with painted wire

Untitled (1959, tempera on wood with painted wire)
by Jesus Rafael Soto

                     

A Morning in April

I meet my mother at the lawyer’s office in town.
We thought it best to talk about my being given
health care proxy and power of attorney for
my father without him initially being present.
The lawyer’s on Main Street. He has new shoes.
He is a very quiet and accommodating man with overly
bushy eyebrows that might crawl off
his forehead at any second. His secretary, the older one,
performs all the small talk about the weather.
The younger is obsessed with eating a bowl of frosted flakes.
We are in there for a very long half an hour,
charged one hundred dollars which I find cheap. Afterwards,
I suggest to my mother that we have coffee together,
but she says she should get back to the house as soon
as possible since my father is being looked after by a neighbor.
So, crossing the street, I walk her to her car. She holds
onto my hand. Her hand is the hand of a woman in her eighties.
It is diminished and bony but still capable of being firm.
She was an exceptionally beautiful woman. Still is. I was always
so proud of the fact, when I was a kid, of just how beautiful
my mother was. Naturally enough, I could never understand how
my father had managed to actually have this woman in his life.
I lived with the suspicions that he could read such thoughts in
my eyes. But, I’m well aware of the fact that their love endures
on a level I may never know. I feel like weeping right here
in the street. I help her into her car. She makes a u-turn and
drives off in the direction rain is coming from. I stand there,
rooted in front of a closed movie theater in a decaying town
that lies between a river and a creek. It is a morning in April.
At some point Alzheimer’s could force us to put my father in
a nursing home. I don’t talk to my mother about this too much.
We know the possibility exists. I dread the day when
I’ll be responsible for separating them. It will be like
tearing the wings off a bird and throwing them up in the air and
expecting them to fly.

~ Ronald Baatz

                   

Music by Emmylou Harris, “Goodbye”

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7 thoughts on ““Some words build houses in your throat. and they live there, content and on fire.” ~ Nayyirah Waheed

  1. Wow that was strange. I just wrote an really long comment but after I clicked submit my comment didn’t show up.
    Grrrr… well I’m not writing all that over again. Anyhow, just wanted to say wonderful blog!

  2. I leave a comment each time I appreciate a post
    on a site or if I have something to add to the discussion. Usually it’s caused by the passion communicated in the post I browsed.

    And after this article “Some words build houses in your throat.
    and they live there, content and on fire.” ~ Nayyirah
    Waheed | Lola’s Curmudgeonly Musings about Life, Love
    & Other Trifles. I was actually moved enough to post a thought ;
    ) I actually do have 2 questions for you if it’s allright.

    Is it just me or does it seem like a few of the remarks appear like coming from brain dead visitors?
    😛 And, if you are posting on additional online social sites,
    I’d like to follow everything fresh you have to post. Could you list all of
    your communal pages like your linkedin profile, Facebook
    page or twitter feed?

  3. Wow. Very deep, hard poems… Life is hard. And, life is hard enough because of the matter in these two poems, without having a country that seems to be losing ground… The nurse that gave me the MMR shot from today said she’d moved to another country if she could find one. I hate us being scared…

    • It is very odd to be living in a country that is losing its identity. I remember the bicentennial, how much pride and vigor the country and its people had. I can only imagine the way the people must have felt coming out of WWII. The U.S. was a nation among nations. Now, we are a country in turmoil, a country defined more by what we don’t want than what we want, by who we want to keep out rather than who we embrace.

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