Featured Poet: lyn lifshin                        

lifshin page 1


lifshin page 2


IN THE DREAM

I'm wrapping things in mother's house up,
sealing the calm, wrapping what's break
able in towels. I stuff newspaper
from 1947 in with the silver.
My fingers ache from folding and
pressing what ever I can touch
in a box. My neck and
shoulders, ankle and feet hurt. The
boxes are piled so high
they're close to toppling. I'm
drained. Just see the cardboard
tilting toward me. I think of her, my
mother on the bed in the room
where the rooms are
wounded. She is wading through
the packed boxes, waiting
for the next move. Then I take an oblong
box lighter than all the others, big
enough for two huge dolls,
but light, as if full of
air. Then I realize it is my
mother, lighter than the clothes and
stuff animals, lighter than the
red whale-shark
that floated in some pool
I lost the outline of, knotted or
torn so the air leaked,
would stay in as long as what
was a knot held the
last air from escaping, like my
mother, now light as air


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