My Life

I guess the last week I’ve been going back and rediscovering some poems that have really resonated with my over the years.

Brian Arnold - L. outside

Today I have been reading this poem by Mark Strand, My Life.

Brian_Anold - Make-up Jar

MY LIFE

The huge doll of my body
refuses to rise.
I am the toy of women.
My mother

would prop me up for her friends.
“Talk, talk,” she would beg.
I moved my mouth
but words did not come.

My wife took me down from the shelf.
I lay in her arms.  “We suffer
the sickness of self,” she would whisper.
And I lay there dumb.

Now my daughter
gives me a plastic nurser
filled with water.
“You are my real baby,” she says.

Poor child!
I look into the brown
mirrors of her eyes
and see myself

diminishing, sinking down
to a depth she does not know is there.
Out of breath,
I will not rise again.

I grow into my death.
My life is small
and getting smaller.  The world is green.
Nothing is all.

Mark Strand

Brian Arnold - L. twisted#2

Such simplicity, and yet some kind of wisdom.

mom

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