Time
By Louise Erdrich
My breasts are soft.
My hair is dull.
I am growing into the body
of the old woman who will bear me
toward my death,
my death which will do me no harm.
Every day the calico cat returns from the fields
with a mouse in her jaws.
After every bite of the tender lawn, the ground squirrel
jerks and flinches,
but no hawk drops out of the sky.
The fat creature continues to eat, nervously
stuffing itself with pleasure.
I watch him as I drink from a bottle of grassy wine.
Why do I long
to be devoured and to forget
in life rather than in death?
What is the difference?
From: "Original Fire, Selected and New Poems" by Louise Erdrich
i have a few poems printed out in my bag, thin white tattered paper. this is one of them. this is one of those poems that is a perfect puzzle, a tiny pebble perfect in the pocket.
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erin
Yes, it's a perfect poem, a life-saving ladder in the window of a house on fire. xo
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