Saturday, April 28, 2007

Luci Shaw (1928 - )

After her daughter's wedding
she cleaned out the bedroom - rolling up
the posters of Venice, the Greek
Islands, virginal sails like wings
in golden bays. Surveying the naked
closet and walls from the doorway
she felt the chill, as though
she had just expelled
her afterbirth. And from

some deep place she remembered -
that beginning of loss, a pushing out
and out that left the matrix hollow.
The newborn's muted cry still
echoes - another expulsion,
another wave goodbye.
Every division of cells widens
the change; the ripples circle out;
the boat leaves harbor.

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