She strokes the fabric, grips the midnight
of her flowered parlor chair,
smoothes each renegade leaf, swears
she will iron flat each petal’s lust
to leap toward fresh air and light.
She vows with practiced smile and tilted stare
to press every wrinkled impulse, to starch
each domestic thread into place. But right
behind her, on damask drapes with pleats,
cabbage roses have decided to bleach
themselves of their dusty pink, their cool mint.
Venetian blinds wring out sunlight and breeze.
Soon the slats will flatten into a solid wall, blanched.
They will ignore all possibility, forget all movement.
Previously published in the North Carolina Poetry
Society's
"Award Winning Poems, 1999"
Used with permission of the Poet. |
