Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, WRAPPED SONGS, by LYNNE KNIGHT


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

WRAPPED SONGS, by                    
First Line: The wind sings in a smaller
Subject(s): Old Age; Time; Women


One thing leads into another or back to its own beginning: it is all the
same, wrapping the past inside the future, the present inside the past --
wrapping, in other words, time inside its loss.
-- Serena Pichou, "The Exile Within"

within21
The wind sings in a smaller
language now, winds around
her ankles, twists her hair
She's inside, window shut,
but the wind slips across
her bed like an old water snake
to feed on the quick fish
of her whisperings
Sometimes she grabs the wind
by the throat to keep it from
swallowing its snake song,
full of pulses and thrust
When attendants bring food,
she never lets on she can't hold
the spoon because her body's
too light She just stares
Then she sings, breath
like wind being pulled

stranded
The bed makes a hih! hiss!
if she moves More snakes,
these from deep in sand
A dry heat takes her by the hand,
leads her through a space
she might have called Saharan
before so many words left her,
left her voice thin as sand
Dunes Oases A cold moon
shaking its silver down on trees
though there are no trees, just sand --
unending, rootless --
nothing but more of it running
through her fingers
as she holds up her hand,
watching light slip
around it, white glove she'll lose
as soon as the heat rushes off
into night, leaving her

forlorn
Someone has brought her flowers
like flowers for the dead,
a big leafy fan of them to wave
the spirit along the path
But flowers have heads, there are
too many, crowding around her
like the dead She screams
for help, but too weakly,
a bleat nurses quiet
with water, words There, there
Still she bleats
Gladioli, chrysanthemums
toppling
And the yellow eyes
of the daisies, so

gone
A daughter comes Oh, she's old,
her hands lumpy with veins,
the seam in her head
faded at the root
Daughter looks under the sheet
Little torn sounds: sighs?
Daughter leans closer,
nursey-nurse now: There, there
But the seam in her head is ashen
The cord that once
held them together is long

taken
They strap her into the chair,
wheel her into the gleam
of sterilized tile
She drops the lids of her eyes
like a lizard, leans back
Reptilian creep of her hand
on the chair arm Little ssisssssss
as she slides forward, trying
to cross to the other side
There, there Someone yanks
the belt tight over her soft
old stomach, pats her hair
She smiles, reptilian ssisssssss
as her tongue darts out, back
But it's too cold for a desert
Better not to let on
Better to hold still like a rock
in the sun, like someone
trying not to be

them
She's on the beach, sees
her husband farther down,
coming toward her
Hello! hello! but her cries
blend with the gulls, dive into
the waves Her husband's
ahead of her now Hello!
Her cries slip inside waves,
rise inside gulls
He's stopped walking
to cup his hand, light a cigaret
It has to be him
But what's that heaped-up
thing behind him, all
barnacled -- her mother?
She calls and calls
Nothing but gulls to hear
Her feet sink so far
she can't feel

anything
The one in the next bed cries
Help me! I'm desperately ill!
Blind, calling out where
there are no prophets
I'm desperately ill, desperately!
over and over in and out
night and day desperately!
though sometimes, late at night
or in the quiet of afternoon
when drugs bring sleep,
the blind one cries
only des, des, des,
little one-note rehearsal
she hears as death
or the wrrethhh
of birds swooping down
She covers her eyes
to hide them from beaks
The dark holds

more
They take the desperately
shouting one away, leaving
the next bed empty like the desert
tomb she has dreamed of,
sand drifting its long cloak
over her, but no, there has been
no death, only emptiness
that feels like death when she takes
one hand in the other, sings
Where can I put this?
then lays it on her knees,
strange glove that won't keep still
as she pulls it toward her, licks,
chews, and in this way goes on
waiting for nothing

next
They mash her food
like a baby's to keep her
from choking
She takes, swallows while
inside her skull
everything is
breaking apart,
the nerve paths
like bridges torn in half
Still she keeps
trying to get across
all that comes

loose
She's picking huckleberries
from bushes at the farm
The ripest are sweet enough
to eat, so she steals them
to her tongue, eyes
alert for spies Her shoes
are stained almost like
blood so she has to run down
to Long Pond to rinse everything off,
hands, shoes, mouth, tongue
To beguile the fish she begins
a hymn, leaning, till a water stain
blooms, spreads its way up
the cloth of her skirt She needs
to be changed, the tube's leaking
a nurse says, pulling it out like
an old seed pod but oh! full of
blood while the pond
recedes and the sweet taste
on her tongue comes

apart
She can't find her breasts
She feels in the bed for them,
under her knees
She touches the bony cage
Pigeon breast
she hears a nurse murmur
She traces the jut, the fingery
bones Are there wings?
feathers? punishment?
Why else shrivel her, leave her
in this long bed
where she keeps falling

quietly
She has dark bruises on her legs,
color of blue plums, soft like
plum skin ready to split open
The daughter touches,
halfthinking moths will rise up,
My mother, my moth --
breakage, diminishment
as she lies in her skin
waiting to go
where everything goes

together
It's almost midnight
She's talking to the sweet ones
in her dreams, lullaby syllables
drifting the air, wrapping around
one another before they sink
back toward her mouth
to become other shapes or
wrap and unwrap
her breath full of want
She calls for her best things
Some days the three stillborn ones
come with grown hands and feet
to sit by her side and whisper
Then the two daughters come,
whisper louder
She pulls at the sheet,
smooths it ready Oh, let her
cover them all
while they are still hers, still

Copyright © Lynne Knight.





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