|
|
|
The Breakdown Atlas
& Other Poems
by Lauren Tivey
|
Excerpts
Crossing
I let his harsh words drown in the olive density
of harbor waters, as the boat kicks off the pier.
My wedding ring twirls loose on its finger—
I could drop it overboard, like a coin, but I do not.
Bewildered, I roam the island. A gull
hovering on an air current reminds me that
togetherness can be smooth, or it can be
as waves walloping rocky, stalwart shores.
After two solitary days, the mountains,
the little house, and the man wearing the ring
start to draw over me like a tide, but there is no
crossing back. No boat can carry me there.
Library
I remember a girl, whispering
with menses, her breasts swelling
under a sweater. She’d just moved
upstairs from the children’s room.
The bindings were like rows of bones
to her. She didn’t know yet
that she’d suffer, or smoke
cigarettes forever, or that boys
would use her. Only the books
mattered, as they’d always
matter. She sat at a table
for hours, cradling them,
then donned her pink poncho,
headed down the steps into
encroaching maturity, everything
palatable, then.
My Daughter at Seventeen
I hold the scissors in my shaking hands. I don’t
want to, but I cut her from you, detaching the pearl
from its tongue-pink bed. The throbbing cord
is lumpish and gray—the pulp of raw calamari,
the matter of ocean. Together,
we bring granddaughter into the light.
She rests, squinting and wet, on the cushion
of your chest. And you look so happy,
knowing that the separation of her body,
wracked from your body, is only
a beginning. For this thing
you’d created, this parcel of cells
and bones, blood and nerves—I saw
your eyes filling with a new kind of love:
You’re better at this than I ever imagined.
Purchase The Breakdown Atlas & Other Poems here.
|
|
|
|
|
|
