Monday, March 11, 2013

A Gjertrud Schnackenberg Poem

Gjertrud Schnackenberg


Threading the palm, a web of tiny lines
Spells out the lost money, the heart, the head,
The wagging tongues, the sudden deaths, in signs
We would smooth out like imprints on a bed,

In signs that can't be helped, geese heading south,
In signs read anxiously, like breath that clouds
A mirror held to a barely breathing mouth, 
Like telegrams, the gathering of crowds--

The plane, an X in the sky spelling disaster:
Before the whistle and hit, a tracer flare;
Before rubble, a hairline crack in plaster
And a housefly's panicked scribbling on the air.


1 comment:

  1. If you haven't yet done so, I urge you fans of poetry to check out Ms Schnackenberg's work. She's terrific. Really.