The BlueIris Semi-Nightly Poetry Break, 11/6/07

[BlueIris]

"Aging Female Poet on Laundry Day"

I prop up my face and go out, avoiding the sunlight,
keeping away from the curve where the burnt road
touches the sky.
Whatever exists at the earth's center will get me
sooner or later. Sooner. Than I think.
That core of light squeezed tight
and shut, dense as a star, as molten
mirrors. Dark red and heavy. Slab at the butcher's.
Already it's dragging me down, already
I become shorter, infinitesimally.
The bones of my legs thicken—that's first—
contract, like muscles.
After that comes the frailty, a dry wind blowing
inside my body,
scouring me from within, as if I were
a fossil, the soft parts eaten away.
Soon I will turn to calcium. It starts with the heart.

I do a lot of washing. I wash everything.
If I could only get this clean once, before I die.

To see God, they told me, you do not go
into the forrest or city; not the meadow,
to seashore even unless it is cold.
You go to the desert.
You think of sand.

—Margaret Atwood

[BlueIris]

1. Kick.

[BlueIris]

2. Why do selections about mature women, poets and housework always tank the hardest?

[BlueIris]

3. Another one that just

:nuke:

Fine. Tomorrow we bring back the poems with more visceral images. Enjoy!

[Callalily]

4. I just simply

adore Margaret Atwood!