Poetry compose by Mark Strand
The Dreadful Has Already Happened by Mark Strand
The relatives are leaning over, staring expectantly.They moisten their lips with their tongues. I can feelthem urging me on. I hold the baby in the air.Heaps of broken bottles glitter in the sun.A small band is playing old fashioned marches.My mother is keeping time by stamping her foot.My father is kissing a woman who keeps wavingto somebody else. There are palm trees.The hills are spotted with orange flamboyants and tallbillowy clouds move beyond them. "Go on, Boy,"I hear somebody say, "Go on."I keep wondering if it will rain.The sky darkens. There is thunder."Break his legs," says one of my aunts,"Now give him a kiss." I do what I'm told.The trees bend in the bleak tropical wind.The baby did not scream, but I remember that sighwhen I reached inside for his tiny lungs and shook themout in the air for the flies. The relatives cheered.It was about that time I gave up.Now, when I answer the phone, his lipsare in the receiver; when I sleep, his hair is gatheredaround a familiar face on the pillow; wherever I searchI find his feet. He is what is left of my life.
8:49 PM
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
&& i think of u every night~
