Tuesday, February 19, 2019

You Were You Are Elegy by Mary Jo Bang

Fragile like a child is fragile. 
Destined not to be forever. 
Destined to become other 
To mother. Here I am 
Sitting on a chair, thinking 
About you. Thinking 
About how it was 
To talk to you. 
How sometimes it was wonderful 
And sometimes it was awful. 
How drugs when drugs were 
Undid the good almost entirely 
But not entirely 
Because good could always be seen 
Glimmering like lame glimmers 
In the window of a shop 
Called Beautiful 
Things Never Last Forever. 
I loved you. I love you. You were. 
And you are. Life is experience. 
It's all so simple. Experience is 
The chair we sit on. 
The sitting. The thinking 
Of you where you are a blank 
To be filled 
In by missing. I loved you. 
I love you like I love 
All beautiful things. 
True beauty is truly seldom. 
You were. You are 
In May. May now is looking onto 
The June that is coming up. 
This is how I measure 
The year. Everything Was My Fault 
Has been the theme of the song 
I've been singing, 
Even when you've told me to quiet. 
I haven't been quiet. 
I've been crying. I think you 
Have forgiven me. You keep 
Putting your hand on my shoulder 
When I'm crying. 
Thank you for that. And 
For the ineffable sense 
Of continuance. You were. You are 
The brightest thing in the shop window 
And the most beautiful seldom I ever saw.

Thursday, February 14, 2019

I Give In To An Old Desire

I lost so much
of the world’s beauty, as if I were watching

every shining gift
on its branch with one eye. Because

I was hungry. Because I was waiting

to eat, a self

crawling about the
world in search

of small things. I remember a small thing, my mother’s hat,

a tea
hat or cocktail

hat that sat on top of her
perfect face—petals, perhaps

peonies, flaming out, like
the pink feathers of some exotic

bird. Her mother
had been a cook in the South. She grew up

in the home of
wealthy white people. Hesitant

toward her own
beauty, unable

to protect mine, there were things
she never talked about. She said silence

was a balm. It sat
on top of her head, something of exaltation

and wonder exploding
from the inside like

a woman in orgasm. One artificial flower

I have desired
to write about for years.

Toi Derricotte