Lucie Brock-Broido Poems
|4.||Currying the Fallow-Colored Horse||10/24/2017|
|6.||Father, in Drawer||10/24/2017|
|7.||Infinite Riches in the Smallest Room||10/24/2017|
|9.||A Girl Ago||10/24/2017|
|10.||Freedom of Speech||10/24/2017|
|11.||Meditation on the Sources of the Catastrophic Imagination||10/24/2017|
|12.||Two Girls Ago||10/24/2017|
|13.||You Have Harnessed Yourself Ridiculously to This World||10/24/2017|
|15.||Did Not Come Back||10/24/2017|
|17.||After the Grand Perhaps||10/24/2017|
|19.||How Can It Be I Am No Longer I||5/14/2015|
Comments about Lucie Brock-Broido
How Can It Be I Am No Longer I
Winter was the ravaging in the scarified
Ghost garden, a freak of letters crossing down a rare
Path bleak with poplars. Only the yew were a crewel
Of kith at the fieldstone wall, annulled
As a dulcimer cinched in a green velvet sack.
To be damaged is to endanger—taut as the stark
Throats of castrati in their choir, lymphless & fawning
& pale. The miraculous conjoining
Where the beamless air harms our self & lung,
Our three-chambered heart & sternum,
Where two made a monstrous
Braid of other, ravishing.
To damage is an animal ...
Where is your father whose eye you were the apple of?
Where are your mother's parlor portieres, her slip-covered days, her petticoats?
In the orchard at the other end of time, you were just a child in ballet slippers,
Your first poodle skirt, your tortoiseshell barrettes. As the peach tree grew more
Scarce each day, you kept running out to try to tape the leaves back on their boughs.