Curriculum VitaeWent through my old (read a decade++) drafts. There are poems I've written in graduate school that I still hang onto with the promise that I'd take them to the finish line.
The city is a sickle that cuts
the throat. The dawn a nascent wound,
the dusk a bruise.
Stars are knives, rain washes crime.
The moon a medicine that goldens
pain. This is my livig: inventing
the limits of this page.
The poem above is an example. I submitted it in a small workshop, but I can't remember the panel and the participants' feedback anymore; except that they loved the music in the opening line.
I got stuck subverting the sky cliches. Last night things clicked and now I'm letting this poem go [in Marianne Moore font].