Tis Late Of course the tall stringy woman
draped in a crocheted string-shawl selling single red carnations coned in newsprint the ones she got at the cemetery and resells with a god bless you for a dollar that same woman who thirty years ago was a graduate student in playwriting who can and will recite "At the round earth's imagined corners, blow--" announces silently amidst her louder announcements that the experiment some amateurs mixed of white fizzing democracy with smoky purple capitalism has failed. We already knew that. Her madness is my madness and this is my flower in a cone of waste paper I stole from someone's more authentic grief but I will not bless you as I have no spirit of commerce and no returning customers and do not as so many must actually beg for my bread. It is another accident of the lab explosion that while most died and others lost legs some of us are only vaguely queasy at least for now and of course mad conveniently mad necessarily mad because "tis late to ask for pardon" and we were so carefully schooled in false hope schooled like the parrot who crooks her tongue like a dirty finger repeating what her flat bright eyes deny. |
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Copyright © 2013 by April Bernard. Used with permission of the author. |
About this Poem: "In a New England city where I once lived, there is a well-known local 'character,' a former graduate student, now street person, who recites poetry from the canon. I put a Donne sonnet in her mouth for this poem's purposes, because Donne is one of my touchstones and because, as I hope is obvious from the poem, she and I have so much in common. We are all of us only one or two steps away from the street." April Bernard |
Poetry by Bernard Romanticism |
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