Poetry Monday

July 2, 2007 at 10:17 am | Posted in poetry | 10 Comments

Scheherazade
Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake
and dress them in warm clothes again.
How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running
Until they forget that they are horses.
It’s not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere,
it’s more like a song on a policeman’s radio,
how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days
were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple
to slice into pieces.
Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it’s noon, that means
we’re inconsolable.
Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.
These, our bodies, possessed by light.
Tell me we’ll never get used to it.
– Richard Siken

[Note: I cannot for the life of me get WordPress to respect this poem's use of white space, but I love this poem too much not to post it. Please go here and scroll about a third of the way down to read the poem with correct formatting.]

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