Joyce Sutphen Poems

The second half of my life will be black
to the white rind of the old and fading moon.
The second half of my life will be water
over the cracked floor of these desert years.
...

This present tragedy will eventually
turn into myth, and in the mist
of that later telling the bell tolling
now will be a symbol, or, at least,
...

Body is something you need in order to stay
on this planet and you only get one.
And no matter which one you get, it will not
be satisfactory. It will not be beautiful
...

What am I to you now that you are no
longer what you used to be to me?
Who are we to each other now that
there is no us, now that what we once
...

I feel older, younger, both
at once. Every time I win,
I lose. Every time I count,
I forget and must begin again.
...

Talking, we begin to find the way into
our hearts, we who knew no words,
words being a rare commodity
...

Tilt your head slightly to one side and lift
your eyebrows expectantly. Ask questions.
Delve into the subject at hand or let
things come randomly. Don't expect answers.
...

The image that haunts me is not beautiful.
I do not think it will open into a field
of wildflowers; I doubt that it will take
wing suddenly, startling us into admiration.
...

Suddenly, I stopped thinking about Love,
after so many years of only that,
after thinking that nothing else mattered.
...

I'll know the names of all of the birds
and flowers, and not only that, I'll
tell you the name of the piano player
I'm hearing right now on the kitchen
...