On The Persistence Of The Letter As A Form - Poem by Paul Guest
Dear murderous world, dear gawking heart,
I never wrote back to you, not one word
wrenched itself free of my fog-draped mind
to dab in ink the day's dull catalog
of ruin. Take back the ten-speed bike
which bent like a child's cheap toy
beneath me. Accept as your own
the guitar that was smashed over my brother,
who writes now from jail in Savannah,
who I cannot begin to answer. Here
is the beloved pet who died at my feet
and there, outside my window,
is where my mother buried it in a coffin
meant for a newborn. Upon
my family, raw and vigilant, visit numbness.
Of numbness I know enough.
And to you I've now written too much,
dear cloud of thalidomide,
dear spoon trembling at the mouth,
dear marble-eyed doll never answering back.
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