Thursday, April 22, 2010

Jonquils and Naught




Jonquil, the word drops

from your mouth like two weighted marbles.
They roll on the heartwood floor and out
the screen door into the front
garden where you spent the morning
writing letters to your missing brother
who was born twenty nine years ago
in the month of May, two weeks
late, and already out of breath.

Been three months since his last call.
February then, the lawn bitter, stunted,
still furious at the sun. Not much said.
You didn't press him--kept his
words achingly polished in the wet parlor of his throat Well, I... I will... soon... see you--
but if you could, you would have
reached right in, right down, right 
through that rigid duct to finger, 
just once, the word you knew was there,
unfurling like a bulb that blooms in reverse
in the darkness that sustains what is underground

7 comments:

The Scrybe said...

Powerful and wonderfully descriptive. So good! :)

Francis Scudellari said...

Agreed... this is simply amazing. A definite keeper for the FoS e-Book :).

Jenny Enochsson said...

A sublime dramatic mezmerising undertone. Silently screaming. Wonderful piece, Megan!

Thomas Sheridan said...

This just carried me away. Intense.

Ande said...

Sublime and powerful. Some poems just make up a window to a believable world. This is definitly one of them, I think.

Megan Duffy said...

Thank you all for your comments. They mean so very much to me. This was a difficult poem for me to write.

human being said...

a beautiful flow... and the last 3 lines... leave you speechless...