[lit-ideas] Re: Sunday Poem
- From: david ritchie <ritchierd@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
- To: lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx
- Date: Sat, 3 Dec 2005 23:56:15 -0800
You've all had the dream,
in which someone close comes to harm, or dies.
Here we have a history of breast cancer, both sides.
With two daughters, one worries.
Exactly who in my dream was newborn bald again,
reduced, shrunken,
still beautiful,
but gone full crone,
I refuse to recall.
But now, eight fourteen-year old girls fill up the house,
skinny every one,
eating pizza, drinking soda, scarfing cheesecake,
dancing because they feel,
singing Disney choruses and girly rhymes loud,
and louder yet,
shrieking,
returning for seconds,
forgetting where they scattered stuff,
camping out on the living room floor,
so unembarrassed,
so childish,
so full,
they
can eat no more for twenty minutes at least.
They
out-border the border collie,
out dog the dog,
do not remember that death exists.
David Ritchie
Portland, Oregon
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