Friday, May 25, 2018

Daystar by Rita Dove


Daystar

She wanted a little room for thinking: 
but she saw diapers steaming on the line,
a doll slumped behind the door.
So she lugged a chair behind the garage 
to sit out the children’s naps.

Sometimes there were things to watch: 
the pinched armor of a vanished cricket,
a floating maple leaf. Other days 
she stared until she was assured 
when she closed her eyes
she’d see only her vivid own blood.

She had an hour, at best, before Liza appeared 
pouting from the top of the stairs.
And just what was mother doing 
out back with the field mice? Why, 
building a palace. Later
that night when Thomas rolled over and 
lurched into her, she would open her eyes 
and think of the place that was hers 
for an hour — where 
she was nothing, 
pure nothing, in the middle of the day.

 

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