ManicDDaily

*****************************

I am posting the above, with a typed translation below, as a shaped poem for the wonderful Kerry O’Connor’s post on With Real Toads. I have a great deal of trouble “getting” shaped poetry– in this regard, I extend my sincerest apologies to Hedge Witch–(Verse Escape)–for mucking up her comment box this morning with my confusion. She has a wonderful shaped poem.

Here’s the typed version of mine–

Easter meant ham and little white gloves, one
as pink as a tulip, the other white
as snow; Easter was like that–sometimes falling
in the harsh blow of cherry just blossoming–
I’d have to hold onto my new straw hat–other years, my mother
would glisten in her salmon-colored spring coat, a fish
out of water…

The minister had a way of torquing his hands
like a tense crocus or dragnet cage
to focus our attention, say, on the stone rolled away
from the tomb, but my eyes followed instead
the seams of my little white gloves worrying
that they were already smudged,
not understand that is the way
of stitching, to pick up in its threads
bits of the world, the dust
of so many stones.