Thursday, February 25, 2010


by Lyn Lifshin

plastic of course,
not wooden,‭ ‬leaning
against the gray wall
near the stain from
the Vaseline to make
it fit you as I kept
trying to.‭ ‬From your‭
all night radio show
I knew about the‭
grenade,‭ ‬those years
in the hospital.‭ ‬And
I knew I wanted the
you that talked from
midnight to dawn,‭
told stories of your‭
first day out,‭ ‬how‭
your prosthesis twisted
out at an odd angle,‭
knocked the man‭
on a stool off with its
swing and a little boy
saw it and said Mama
that man is walking‭
forward and backward
at the same time.‭ ‬I lured
you with words,‭ ‬with
poems.‭ ‬Did I wonder‭
how it would feel‭
touching‭? ‬It’s a blur I
don’t remember.‭ ‬Only
how I slithered from
leather jeans as you
held me said‭ ‬you know
Lyn, I can get closer,
deeper.‭ ‬How there are
things‭ ‬he said there
are, Honey, some things
I can do better
without it

*Lyn's website:

No comments:

Post a Comment