The Girls
Emilyreclines
like a little
broken love
song.
Anne Sexton
steps
from skin
into grace,
hair falling
behind
like diaphanous
satin.
Hilda,
our littlest
orphan,
finally finds
a home
in the long dream
of oceans.
Sylvia Plath
stirs
the foliage
of her mind
into a to ta lly
new design
where petals drop
like dew
and dead kittens
curl up in jars.
Phillis Wheatley
gets her
intimations
from a plum
to catch us
all off guard
at last.
The girls
gather together
in the great
room of true
despair.
Gates of heaven
protect them
and all their
words,
which fall through
decades of language
sound
like small arms
spinning
through air
and then
there is their
laughter,
a lullaby of birds
flying out
of their mouths,
quietness, quietness, quietness
are the wings flapping.
Poetry by Lisa Zaran
Read 1049 times
Written on 2010-07-05 at 00:04
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