Cover

What We Carry

POEMS BY

DORIANNE LAUX

BOA EDITIONS, LTD.  •  BROCKPORT, NY  •  1994

Copyright

Copyright © 1994 by Dorianne Laux

Manufactured in the United States of America

LC #: 94–71369

ISBN: 978-1-880238-06-6 cloth

ISBN: 978-1-880238-07-3 paper

ISBN: 978-1-938160-37-0 eBook

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Dedication

for my mother

WHAT WE CARRY

Late October

Midnight. The cats under the open window,

their guttural, territorial yowls.

Crouched in the neighbor’s driveway with a broom,

I jab at them with the bristle end,

chasing their raised tails as they scramble

from bush to bush, intent on killing each other.

I shout and kick until they finally

give it up; one shimmies beneath the fence,

the other under a car. I stand in my underwear

in the trembling quiet, remembering my dream.

Something had been stolen from me, valueless

and irreplaceable. Grease and grass blades

were stuck to the bottoms of my feet.

I was shaking and sweating. I had wanted

to kill them. The moon was a white dinner plate

broken exactly in half. I saw myself as I was:

forty-one years old, standing on a slab

of cold concrete, a broom handle slipping

from my hands, my breasts bare, my hair

on end, afraid of what I might do next.

Dust

Someone spoke to me last night,

told me the truth. Just a few words,

but I recognized it.

I knew I should make myself get up,

write it down, but it was late,

and I was exhausted from working

all day in the garden, moving rocks.

Now, I remember only the flavor —

not like food, sweet or sharp.

More like a fine powder, like dust.

And I wasn’t elated or frightened,

but simply rapt, aware.

That’s how it is sometimes —

God comes to your window,

all bright light and black wings,

and you’re just too tired to open it.

If This Is Paradise

The true mystery of the world is the visible…

— OSCAR WILDE

If this is paradise: trees, beehives,

boulders. And this: bald moon, shooting

stars, a little sun. If in your hands

this is paradise: sensate flesh,

hidden bone, your own eyes

opening, then why should we speak?

Why not lift into each day like the animals

that we are and go silently

about our true business: the hunt

for water, fat berries, the mushroom’s