but that no one will love as I did
the oak tree out my boyhood window,
the mother who set herself
so stubbornly against life,
the sister with her serious frown
and her wish for someone at her side,
the father with his dreamy gaze
and his left hand idly buried
in the fur of his dog.
And the dog herself,
that mournful look and huge appetite,
her need for absolute stillness
in the presence of a bird.
I know how each of them looks
when asleep. And I know how it feels
to fall asleep among them.
No one knows that but me,
No one knows how to love the way I do.
--by Jim Moore
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2 comments:
I am in love with the man who sent me this poem. You know who you are.
You're right, ergo... you little twat... I didn't write, but did send this. It was a pleasure to read you sucking all the joy out of it. You should get a job teaching at Smith College or Oberlin.
It was from Garrison Keillor's "Writer's Almanac" at http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/ and was written by Jim Moore.
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