Consider the adhesiveness of things to the ghosts that prized them, the "olden days" of birthday spoons and silver napkin rings. Too carelessly I opened that velvet drawer of heirlooms. There lay my grandmother's soul begging under veils of tarnish to be brought back whole.
She who was always a climate in herself, who refused to vanish as the nineteen-hundreds grew older and louder, and the wars worse, and her grandchildren, bigger and ruder in her daughter's house.
It unfolds and ripples like a banner, downward. All the stories come folding out. The smells and flowers begin to come back, as the tapestry is brightly colored and brocaded. Rabbits and violets.
Who asked you to come over? She got her foot in the door and would not remove it, elbowing and talking swiftly. Gas leak? that sounds like a very existential position; perhaps you had better check with the landlord.
Among the signs of autumn I perceive The Roman wormwood (called by learned men Ambrosia elatior, food for gods,— For to impartial science the humblest weed Is as immortal once as the proudest flower—) Sprinkles its yellow dust over my shoes As I cross the now neglected garden. —We trample under foot the food of gods And spill their nectar in each drop of dew— My honest shoes, fast friends that never stray Far from my couch, thus powdered, countryfied, Bearing many a mile the marks of their adventure, At the post-house disgrace the Gallic gloss Of those well dressed ones who no morning dew Nor Roman wormwood ever have been through,
When for the thorns with which I long, too long, With many a piercing wound, My Saviour’s head have crowned, I seek with garlands to redress that wrong: Through every garden, every mead, I gather flowers (my fruits are only flowers), Dismantling all the fragrant towers That once adorned my shepherdess’s head.
My mother had two faces and a frying pot where she cooked up her daughters into girls before she fixed our dinner. My mother had two faces and a broken pot where she hid out a perfect daughter who was not me
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