martes, abril 13, 2010
Four Poems From Ruth Bavetta
comes for the throat,
a sidewinder in darkness.
Wind works its mutinies
in storm-snarled trees. Water
hammers houses from their roots,
a bus shoots under a bridge.
A man in a tattered T-shirt
floats downriver like a page
torn from a book.
They arrive early,
before he’s ready, go on
with what they have to do.
He pulls his shirt over his head,
discovers a hole. They’re all around
the house now, shouting.
He puts on the pants he wore yesterday,
before he knew, goes into the kitchen
(the sunny yellow walls have faded),
fills the kettle, sets it on the burner.
Today, a scan will probe
his body for cells gone wild.
Outside, they’re probing,
seeking solid ground.
The sky’s already bleached with heat. If
they find competent ground.
they can shore up the foundation.
The kettle shrieks to a boil.
She’s used to them now,
the spectators who sidle
small and soft
under the old and fading moon,
a shambling column,
that casts no shadows. In a dark corner
of the garden, where
there’s no more time
for lilacs, they wait for her
walking up forty-two stairs,
the smell of a rubber ball, your arm
brushing against a stucco wall,
the prick of a pin in the tip
of your right index finger.
There was a clock you once knew,
draw its tick inside your body.
There was a bicycle on a dirt road
the summer you fell in love,
balance on its handlebars.
Enter a room you have forgotten.
Walk through midnight
carrying a make-believe lantern.
Stretch out your hand,
touch the horizon.
Ruth Bavetta's poetry has been published in Nimrod, Tar River Poetry, Rhino, Rattle, Poetry East, North American Review, Atlanta Review, and Poetry New Zealand, among others, and is included in the anthology Twelve Los Angeles Poets. She is a graduate of the University of Southern California, California State College San Bernardino, and Claremont Graduate School.
Publicadas por Zone Magazine a la/s 14:44