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| "1st Whisper" Jan. 1, 2014 |
She was wrapped in black:
Miss Mary, minus the elephants,
Minus Mother. And her
Frail fingers like netleaf limbs now.
Her smell was sweat and dirt and
Sleeping places.
She asked the cashier
For a plastic cup, "for water."
She filled it, instead, with ice.
To keep cool and alive,
This day in December.
Old Pueblo: desert and dust.
Then off she went
To find some shade.
And I stood waiting.
For my name to be called.
For my order to arrive.
2 comments:
This is fantastic, Derick - an excellent poem, and maybe my favorite of your literary work so far. I love the references at the outset, how you have to tell this other person's story (the brief bit you get) by talking about a different, sillier story entirely. I like how the rest of the poem does this roulette between the symbolic and the simply descriptive. And I like when you're inserted into the story, that you get less details than the stranger; her moment looks momentous, if lonely, if desperate; yours, more mundane, a bystander in Miss Mary's exeunt.
Awesome, D.
Whoa!! Thank you so much Sophia! Such a thoughtful review -- I really appreciate it! :) :)
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