Wednesday, October 5, 2011

#88 and #89 from American Ghazals by Sheila E. Murphy

[ 88 ]

Rest, he tells me, and sunlight, get sunlight
for the vitamin D. Eat carefully.

I watch imaginary oceans brush across a nonexistent
shore, the lines change, patterns possibly evaporate.

Over and over, one writes: I must obey.
Person posing as a teacher watches.

The tea, rooibos, eases what I am responsible for.
I observe everything as though its care were my emergency.

Content matters while not mattering at all.
I might have been a history major, or a math.

[ 89 ]

Soft blue eyes, not harsh blue, transparent
as experience, invoking afterthought.

Intonation when a pebble skids across the lake top:
something to tell one's relatives, something to see.

Here sheepskin defines the wall; there is a coating
that protects the object from a likely rain.

She is gone, her purpose has been fulfilled, whose child
are you, am I; is this what we were taught to sacrifice?

Reminiscence that takes place now leaves out
earned actuality, fragrance, texture, taste.

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