and who wore those limp clothes
on the bed, and we stared at the horizon
you drew (to offset the day's dizziness)
and held you in our breath
and wished we could begin again.
CAROL ANN DUFFY
Wish
But what if, in the clammy soil, her limbs
grew warmer, shifted, stirred, kicked off
the covering of earth, the drowsing corms,
the sly worms, what if her arms reached out
to grab the stone, the grooves of her dates
under her thumb, and pulled her up? I wish.
Her bare feet walk along the gravel path
between the graves, her shroud like washing
blown onto the grass, the petals of her wreath
kissed for a bride. Nobody died. Nobody
wept. Nobody slept who couldn't be woken
by the light.
If
I can only push open this heavy door
she'll be standing there in the sun, dirty, tired,
wondering why do I shout, why do I run.
White Writing
No vows written to wed you,
I write them white,
my lips on yours,
light in the soft hours of our married years.
No prayers written to bless you,
I write them white,
your soul a flame,
bright in the window of your maiden name.
Editor's Note: Excerpted from
Feminine Gospels
by Carol Ann Duffy. To be
published in April by Faber and Faber, Inc., an affiliate of Farrar, Straus and
Giroux, LLC. Copyright ©
2002
by Carol Ann Duffy. All rights reserved.
