Cecilia Woloch Poems
|2.||My Mother's Pillow||10/18/2016|
|4.||Postcard to I. Kaminsky from a Dream at the Edge of the Sea||10/18/2016|
|6.||Slow Children at Play||10/18/2016|
|8.||Slow Children at Play||2/7/2018|
|9.||Postcard to I. Kaminsky from a Dream at the Edge of the Sea||2/7/2018|
|11.||Lasswade, Midlothian: Dusk||2/7/2018|
|14.||My Mother's Birds||2/7/2018|
|15.||From Tsigan: The Gypsy Poem||2/7/2018|
|16.||My Mother's Pillow||2/7/2018|
|18.||East India Grill Villanelle||2/7/2018|
|19.||Burning the Doll||2/7/2018|
Comments about Cecilia Woloch
How do people stay true to each other?
When I think of my parents all those years
in the unmade bed of their marriage, not ever
longing for anything else — or: no, they must
have longed; there must have been flickerings,
stray desires, nights she turned from him,
sleepless, and wept, nights he rose silently,
smoked in the dark, nights that nest of breath
and tangled limbs must have seemed
not enough. But it was. Or they just
held on. A gift, perhaps, I've tossed out,
having been always too willing to fly
to the next love, the next and the next, ...
Didn't I stand there once,
white-knuckled, gripping the just-lit taper,
swearing I'd never go back?
And hadn't you kissed the rain from my mouth?
And weren't we gentle and awed and afraid,
knowing we'd stepped from the room of desire
into the further room of love?
And wasn't it sacred, the sweetness
we licked from each other's hands?