he smiles as if but is not breathing
a moment ago he was in his chair
reading she was lighting the fire
she thought she heard a book
drop to the floor he didn’t answer
in an instant she sensed it
a tangible space across an opening
she could neither enter nor fill
as if his eye hit upon a passage
elegant and cruel and true
“Day-Old Widow Poem” by C.D. Wright
The poet C.D. Wright died in her sleep on Tuesday night at
the age of 67. She was a well-known writer, a winner of a MacArthur “genius”
grant and the National Book Critics Circle Award, and a longtime teacher at Brown
Critic Craig Morgan Teicher says, “Wright left us not only a record of what she saw, but of her way of seeing, her slant, from which Truths will always be visible.”
I believe in some parallel universe
We are still together.
On my bad days, I let myself slip there.
I see our first apartment.
My books scattered in every nook and cranny
The bed we never make
The couch where we always argue over the remote
Our guitars living by the window
Walking around in your t shirt
And our dog at our feet when we’re kissing in the kitchen.
Thinking of that makes the nights pass easier.
I believe in parallel universes.
Almost none of the poetries I admire stick to their labels, native or adopted ones. Rather, they are vagrant in their identifications. Tramp poets, there you go, a new label for those with unstable allegiances