Carolyn Forché Poems
|4.||The Memory of Elena||5/20/2016|
|8.||Taking Off My Clothes||5/20/2016|
|11.||The Ghost of Heaven||11/25/2015|
|13.||The Morning Baking||1/13/2003|
|15.||The Garden Shukkei-En||1/13/2003|
|16.||The Testimony Of Light||1/13/2003|
|17.||Poem For Maya||1/13/2003|
What you have heard is true. I was in his house.
His wife carried a tray of coffee and sugar. His
daughter filed her nails, his son went out for the
night. There were daily papers, pet dogs, a pistol
on the cushion beside him. The moon swung bare on
its black cord over the house. On the television
was a cop show. It was in English. Broken bottles
were embedded in the walls around the house to
scoop the kneecaps from a man's legs or cut his
hands to lace. On the windows there were gratings
like those in liquor stores. We had dinner, rack of
The Morning Baking
Grandma, come back, I forgot
How much lard for these rolls
Think you can put yourself in the ground
Like plain potatoes and grow in Ohio?
I am damn sick of getting fat like you
Think you can lie through your Slovak?
Tell filthy stories about the blood sausage?