Joyce Sutphen Poems
|2.||Just For The Record||8/27/2014|
|4.||A Kind Of Villanelle||8/27/2014|
|9.||At The Moment||8/27/2014|
|12.||How To Listen||8/27/2014|
|14.||Older, Younger, Both||8/27/2014|
|16.||Living In The Body||8/27/2014|
|17.||Naming The Stars||1/13/2003|
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.
I will land on my feet this time,
knowing at least two languages and who
my friends are. I will dress for the
occasion, and my hair shall be
whatever color I please.
Everyone will go on celebrating the old
birthday, counting the years as usual,
but I will count myself new from this
inception, this imprint of my own desire.
The second half of my life will be swift, ...
My mind is shuffling its deck tonight,
slipping one card over another,
letting them all fall together at the corners;
the random hand of memory
is dealing from the bottom of the pack.
First: a bearded man emptying
the dragon kiln, then a woman
whistling, her face turned away