The Poetry Of..
Karen Corcoran............................................................
Dabkowski.......................................................................
You Will Know Me By My Ribbons
That flash
of color
dashing past-
that ripple
of stippled
red and green, and the blues
of disastrous
days, you
will know me by my ribbons
getting
in the way, they
say, sometimes, of truth.
(But whose truth,
I would
ask.)
Some say
I'm
callow, callous, too
carefree
to be real,
a silly
woman child whose mouth
is full of mush, and of course I do agree
that often
while
they're wailing-
that's me
sailing past-
bright
ribbons
trailing me
because I know
he
loves
me:
always did
and always
will, so
I don't have the usual swill
to spew, but you'll know me by my ribbons
and they're true, a wave
of constant.
Wave of blue.
The Cry For Which There Is No Answer
My cat
does this
in the early hours of morning
I think
because
he's hungry,
and wants to eat
but when
the food
is in the bowl, and his place is set
beside
me on the rug, he'll
just start up again, staring
off
in the distance- yowl, yowl, yowwwwwwwwl, and I think
it's something
existential
he's expressing
something
lost-
no way
back
home. I could be wrong, but it's a plaintive
thing
that
has
no remedy.
And the strangest is, I know
he cries
in
part
for me-
he cries
for
both
of us.
We Are All Wounded Paws
We are all
wounded paws, our paw pads throbbing,
waiting
for someone
to pull the thorn. Till the horn
of Gabriel
takes us home,
we'll still be
sitting
by the
side of the road, torn paws
held up in entreaty, hoping for comfort,
praying for relief, for the thief
to put back
what he has stolen from our
hearts
as we wait
in darkness, mewling cries around us, gathering closer
together at least
for
heat, as we
wounded all turn east to accuse the dawn.
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