for Mari There were carols on the kitchen radio, a late cold night, entering the room while straightening the blistered Navajo rug, I remembered suddenly what the first eight notes of hark, the herald angels sing felt like vibrating through my body that first time— I was eleven and unprepared, I remembered when I was ten and fainting in church from the sweet ammonia of Easter lilies hosing my nostrils with fragrance and also the emptiness of it—the lord of the dance, in an arc of agony, up on sticks… Copyright © 2016 Norman Dubie. Used with permission of the author. |
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