National Poetry Month
Poem of the Week
April 25, 2005
I.
River of stars, Milky Way,
streaming above Bogota, above
Prague, above Cuernavaca,
where I'm lost in the twisting streets
of my hesitations, surrenders
I bargain with---
What use is a new life
with the same old reactions?
The rivers of dream pouring out
self-delusion---:
one more perfect man, one more
prodigal return.
Given a set of choices
I chose the malady of not marking,
I chose procrastination followed by guilt
ad nauseam,
familiar mistakes.
II.
Only later I will be one of those
who repeat their raptures auraed
like impressionist paintings---
a face's features out of focus.
Still later: the picture: shadowed
like Goya's black paintings
lit by blood,
a local storm.
The voice of the one I miss
missing, struggling to rise again.
III.
How to make up for not finding
what you want, not needing what you find?
Rocks beneath the Poudre's surface
can break the skull.
When they pulled the kayaker out,
the back of his head was caved in.
Tempting to plunge in,
to think you can beat the river.
I'm not strong enough.
That's what I say to myself:
better to live
with the more or less me.
--Mary Crow
First published
in
Hotel Amerika (Spring 2003).
Copyright (c) 2003 by Mary Crow.
Used with the author's permission.
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