I would like an unbroken stretch of drizzly weekday afternoons, in a moulting season: nowhere else to go but across the street for bread, and the paper.
Later, faces, voices across a table, or an autumn fricassee, cèpes and shallots, sipping Gigandas as I dice and hum to Charpentier's vespers.
No one's waiting for me across an ocean. What I can't understand or change is distant. War is a debate, or at worst, a headlined nightmare. But waking
it will be there still, and one morning closer to my implication in what I never chose, elected, as my natal sky rains down civilian ashes.
Marilyn HackerI would like an unbroken stretch of drizzly weekday afternoons, in a moulting season: nowhere else to go but across the street for bread, and the paper.
Later, faces, voices across a table, or an autumn fricassee, cèpes and shallots, sipping Gigandas as I dice and hum to Charpentier’s vespers.
No one’s waiting for me across an ocean. What I can’t understand or change is distant. War is a debate, or at worst, a headlined nightmare. But waking
it will be there still, and one morning closer to my implication in what I never chose, elected, as my natal sky rains down civilian ashes.
Marilyn Hacker