Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Tuesday Poem: The Eyes of Flesh

My
father
dreams
that I
shall be
a wife.

Setting me
up in weeds
outside a
house where
beds of flowers
plunge
into fertilizer (he
would plant
me there)
with greenish braids
veined on my
ivory neck
twisted above
blood-checked gingham
in a knot
of love.

All his tears
fall from
his glassy rimmed
spectacles
to awaken him.

Father, sleep
in Jerusalem.
I hate
the plastic
fixtures
in this place
where we
erase
my childhood. For
a house
is where
deep
purposes are
broken
off.

by Sandra Hochman

from No More Masks!; Doubleday Anchor, 1973