My brother is always
dying. My mother
walks with me
through endless halls
in enormous houses.My mouth is full of broken
glass. Someone has killed
the bird in the book. My teeth
fall out in splinters, in shards.
Feathers fly up from the page.My brother is still
dying. My grand-
mother's house is empty,
and I don't know how
to get home.
POEMS
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E - F
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I - J
K - L
M - N
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W - Z
MORE OF SB's POEMS
@WATERMARK |A Poet's Notebook
- Disclaimer
Please do not assume that I am the speaker/ subject of my poems.
In these times of creative nonfiction and fictionalized memoirs, I think of the poem itself as true fiction: it is most likely not factual, but it must be true.
It is likely to be -- it is best if it is -- a truth I did not know before I wrote, and may not understand even then.
A poem is my way of discovering (dis-covering) what I feel; sometimes, what I think -- but it is not necessarily biographical.
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