The Poetry Of.
Karen Corcoran Dabkowski
Chance
Bridge over
San Luis Rey
bridge
over troubled waters
bridge
over a bridge, as in
the case
of the Fort Pitt double-decker
all promise passage
over
a thing we can't
survive
unless we're fish - or have a boat - and in this life
there are always
five who will die
and one
who will
seek
to know why
then die
himself - the question
bubbling up
from dark waters, and the answers
in the air
inside
the bubbles
he never
hears, and it sounds
like chuckling.
Little Girl
Scraped, band
aided
knees, and eyes too big
for her face -
she brought
a lot
to the table
before
it broke.
Who is this woman, twirling?
Only a skirt
with memories
too large for the dress
and immaturely
hopeless, annoying
giggling - and still
those
eyes
surprise
the
ghosts. She thinks
she'll
ride it
out,
but she is wrong. That tide left
long ago
when she had
toes
like baby prawns -
but now she's
far too old
for
'cute': she looks
but
never sees.
Erstwhiles
Taking the horribles,
putting them into the box
and closing
the lid
till
after sleep, the child went dreaming.
There were
burpable
purples,
small as babies
and ratcheting
stairs
went off
to nowhere- up and up
and at
the top, a light from under a door
that instead of a knocker, held a truncheon,
and bopped
the child
with
love
all
through
the night. The love
waxed
hard - and
never opened. The child
in front
of it,
curled as a cat-
lay
down
and
dreamed.
No Limit
When the warp
has been enough,
and the weals
stand high
with pain, raise eyes
to an unlocked heaven.
In times like these
it opens,
it speaks,
it says
the one
word
dreaded
- More.
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