Lynn Strongin

I Did Not Live My Childhood in this Country

(the childhood I carried up in a blue footlocker, a dark truck & a few valises)
this country bares its breast to the onslaught like a woman to love.

As river-ice is stored in sawdust, so my dark & my bright memories
of music in that river city.

        Up & down the coast shutters are closing, indigo on ivory:
        the rabbit hunters are transformed
        in drops of rain, I see them risen, ice in their ear flaps.
                Snow opens the old wounds
The actors take their places,
The prompter, marionette-like, gestures from the wings: The word marionette comes from the Catholic church

                        While I order flowers for Mol whom God took home over the weekend, you stand,
                        a young nun, giving a five-day weather forecast yet another morning.

Transfiguration

The jimble-jamble of morning:
your socks, my socks,
hot water pig

the water glasses, yours & mine:        the nite-lite with the little fillaments like thread-things;
Mother,
across the continent down South again taking up smoking

at Duck Pond.
The jimb-jambs.
People pooling in our lobby talking of a death over the weekend.
Sparrowhawk
Linked wooden train:
while Mol in her high glory is laid to rest.

We are low to earth. In need of some sighting.
Bring back legs & autumn:                 leaves applauding. An armistice if not the war won.

Dog-Berry Apple Jelly 2000 muscles in the wrist of the body jimgle-jamgle music:
the child, the girl, light shines thru the muscle in the arm, the incandescent daily.