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20 April 2009 @ 05:34 pm
a list poem  
Shelving

Paperbacks, their spines fanned, pages
waved from water damage. Scraps
of paper I once tucked in as place-
holders.
Books I Have Never Read.
Books I Have Read Four Times
and will again.
And then again.
Dad’s French-English dictionary, purchased
when he wore his hair long. Had never
dreamed me. Still studied and traveled
and wished.
My old jewelry box, the ballerina that tries
to spin within, her spring bent, her tune slow—
a dirge. Her pockets of plastic jewels.
The clock that stopped ticking at noon or midnight,
any day, when I wasn’t looking, and I never bothered
with a new battery or the right time.
Grandma’s china dolls, perfect and yellowed,
with their painted Cinderella faces,
their dresses like shells.
Shoeboxed memories closed within the word
“PRIVATE”: tickets, a folded program,
a prideful grade.
An invitation to junior prom, framed in plastic.
Last night’s empty mug of tea.

©2009
I would really appreciate feedback.
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