Room in Antwerp Dust covers the window, but light slips through-- it always does--through dust or cracks or under doors.
Every day at dusk, the sun, through branches, hits a river's bend & sends silver slivers to the walls.
No one's there to see this. No one. But it dances there anyway, that light,
& when the wind weaves waves into the water it's as if lit syllables quivered on the bricks.
Then the sun sinks, swallowed by the dark. In that dark more dust, always more dust settles--sighs over everything.
There is no silence there, something always stirs not far away. Small rags of noise.
Rilke said most people will know only a small corner of their room.
I read this long ago & still don't know how to understand that word only, do you?
Where are you? I think of you so often and search for you in every face that comes between me & dust,
me & dusk--first love, torn corner from this life. Copyright © 2013 by Laure-Anne Bosselaar. Used with permission of the author. |
About This Poem "Not long ago I re-read a poem I return to often, 'The Previous Occupant' by Agha Shahid Ali, and it made me think of the fate of those lit places we leave behind as we move on with our lives--or because of our lives. I wrote this poem remembering a tiny room I loved very much, on the top floor of an old house in Antwerp, near the Scheldt river." --Laure-Anne Bosselaar |
Most Recent Book by Bosselaar
(Ausable Press, 2007)
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