The BlueIris Semi-Nightly Poetry Break, 12/8/07 Bonus

[BlueIris]

"How It Will Happen, When"

There you are, exhausted from another night of crying,
curled up on the couch, the floor, at the foot of the bed,

anywhere you fall down crying, half amazed
at what the body is capable of, not believing you can cry

anymore. And there they are, his socks, his shirt, your
underwear, and your winter gloves, all in a loose pile

next to the bathroom door, and you fall down again.
Someday, years from now, things will be different:

the house clean for once, everything in its place, windows
shining, sun coming in easily now, skimming across

the thin glaze of wax on the wood floor. You'll be peeling
and orange or watching a bird leap from the edge of the rooftop

next door, noticing how, for an instant, her body is trapped
in the air, only a moment before gathering the will to fly

into the ruff at her wings, and then doing it: flying.
You'll be reading, and for a moment you’ll see a word

you don't recognize, a simple word like cup or gate or wisp
and you'll ponder it like a child discovering language.

Cup, you'll say it over and over until it begins to make sense,
and that's when you’ll say it for the first time, out loud: He's dead.

He's not coming back, and it will be the first time you believe it.

—Dorianne Laux

[fizzgig]

1. this one made me cry

sigh

[BlueIris]

4. Dorianne is a great writer. nt

[Perseid]

2. sink again

think again
it happens to
you

when we worry too much about tomorrow
and question our fears and our
sorrow
it happens to
you

[CaliforniaPeggy]

3. My dear BlueIris...

Ah, this one makes me weep...

And he hasn't died yet...

But I know he will

And then I'll live inside this poem I read here tonight...

Thank you

:cry:

[BlueIris]

5. Repost, sans humiliating typo:

"How It Will Happen, When"

There you are, exhausted from another night of crying,
curled up on the couch, the floor, at the foot of the bed,

anywhere you fall down crying, half amazed
at what the body is capable of, not believing you can cry

anymore. And there they are, his socks, his shirt, your
underwear, and your winter gloves, all in a loose pile

next to the bathroom door, and you fall down again.
Someday, years from now, things will be different:

the house clean for once, everything in its place, windows
shining, sun coming in easily now, skimming across

the thin glaze of wax on the wood floor. You'll be peeling
an orange or watching a bird leap from the edge of the rooftop

next door, noticing how, for an instant, her body is trapped
in the air, only a moment before gathering the will to fly

into the ruff at her wings, and then doing it: flying.
You’ll be reading, and for a moment you’ll see a word

you don't recognize, a simple word like cup or gate or wisp
and you'll ponder it like a child discovering language.

Cup, you'll say it over and over until it begins to make sense,
and that's when you'll say it for the first time, out loud: He's dead.

He's not coming back, and it will be the first time you believe it.

—Dorianne Laux