Featured Poem 10/11/08


One of these days, we’ll find each piece
Of ourselves burning like the leaves
Of a maple tree, all red and orange flames,
Like California forest fires,
Like all the ochre grains
We proffer our children.
Each piece of ourselves will grow smaller,
Become crisper, wizened and crackled,
Until eventually, each eyelash and freckle,
Each upper lip and clavicle, each line upon
Our ugly little faces, will be distilled
To tiny, vibrating strings.  As such, these
Strings are only glimpsed
In the brightest degree of sunlight.

And what we used to call ourselves,
Will come out only
As consistent,
Startling hums
As quiet and as still

As morning.

—Jesslyn Roebuck

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