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Lot's Wife
frozen behind eyes
unnamed, unknown
I am a stoppered well of sobs and tears
which the rock of my mind turns, molten, back into briny calm
(the kind which kneads bread and scrubs sheets and floors)
until, a pillar of stoic strength, silent longing,
my hopes calcify upon my fears, sorrows becoming solid
a sublimation of the spirit, which
finally free from the weight of tears,
rises above Sodom's flames
sin, dense as salt,
has no wings
I have lost a poem
no way of finding it
unless memory's hinges
unlock when I'm not looking
I recall only one line
No author, title, anthology
Just:
there are always gaps in certainty
quietly,
it slips back to me
(one thread, a koan, a mantra)
in unexpected moments:
watching snow fall,
waiting for water to boil.
a scrap of dream I had forgotten
in the library's quiet groves
silent volumes stand erect, waiting
the spaces between the spines
I could wander forever, searching
in the gap between the shelves
(holding a string I can't let go of
though the kite is long gone)
a scrap of a dream
among an eternity of dreams
there are always gaps in certainty
No time for staring into cracks
waiting on the edge of gaps
always, always,
we must be moving on.
When I Was Seven
i wanted skin like coffee beans
or a cup distilled, with cream
and sugar, steam rising -
the smoky morning, before
the sunrise
i wanted hair twisted into bars
of chocolate, cascading
braids of licorice, or
strands of twilight, wild,
untamable
i wanted my blank skin to be
colored deep, fathoms
of the solid substance of
the sea, impenetrable pillar
of beauty & mystery
i wanted stories written in it:
tales of courage, perseverance in pain,
hope lingering when hope is gone,
opinions, passions, songs,
stains of determination
running deep
i wanted all that heaped history, heavy, scripted
black ink on black skin
i wanted a spirit of river mud
i wanted a soul of sweet maple
i wanted a will of solid oak
i wanted courage like coals
i wanted eyes shining like mahogany
i wanted to be soaked in ink
& sepia-spilled sentences
i wanted to be
a story worth reading
Whitney Gratton is an undergraduate illustration student at Rochester
Institute of Technology. She is just as thrilled to have her work
published for the first time as she is to be in Scotland for the
summer, studying modern literature and creative writing at the
University of Edinburgh. "Home" is still the small town of West Chazy
near Plattsburgh, NY, where the trees, fresh air, and open spaces,
among other things, are essential to her long-term sanity and
happiness.
Email: Whitney Gratton
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