............................................................................................................................................
The Poetry Of.
Karen Corcoran
Dabkowski...................
Blue Bag
You think it may
be the wind, but it hums beneath
it, kind of
twitchy. Fear of turning
another corner, fright
for what may be sighted
around the bend. I had these recurrent
thoughts
while following an Audi
that trailed a common, blue plastic grocery bag filled with air
and as the car took corners tightly, the bag stuck
fast. My cat once had a similar bag latched onto his claw
and he went completely crazy,
tearing through the rooms, unknown noise
in close pursuit until it fell off and he dropped sideways
panting on the rug,
so I wondered
as I watched the car rub corners
on the off ramp, just how damp the driver's palms
were-- if he heard it-- if he heard the thing
pursuing him; if it
reminded him
of anything else that
stalks.
Utter Grief
Into the void is
the darker
one: the mother
who despaired, and chopped the arms
from her baby--
how my soul
loses
its
bottom,
is nothing
hung
next to this one, howling
mad. Half taking me
with it.
Fool with the beautiful voice
yet every note
a canker-
there is no such
thing, no place
beyond good and evil.
We are locked
in our mortality
from birth,
and those
who do not know it, who want to blithe
their life- are those cries
heard faint and foolish
on a terminal wind, that whips through
all despair. Gives it
that grin.
