The Little Review (littlereview) wrote,
The Little Review

Poem for Thursday, X-Files, Prospect Park Zoo

By Rachel Eliza Griffiths

Your names toll in my dreams.
I pick up tinsel in the street. A nameless god
streaks my hand with blood. I look at the lighted trees
in windows & the spindles of pine tremble
in warm rooms. The flesh of home, silent.
How quiet the bells of heaven must be, cold
with stars who cannot rhyme their brilliance
to our weapons. What rouses our lives each moment?
Nothing but life dares dying. My memory, another obituary.
My memory is a cross. Face down. A whistle in high grass.
A shadow pouring down the sill of calamity.
Your names wake me in the nearly dark hour.
The candles in our windows flicker
where your faces peer in, ask us
questions light cannot answer.


Half my afternoon and evening got derailed talking to people on Facebook (in some cases people I didn't know) about the student walkouts, gun control, and politics in general, so I will keep this brief. It wasn't a super exciting day anyway apart from the fact that, using $20 in bonus bucks from my Sears credit card that I didn't have to spend any money to get in the first place, I got us a new toaster oven, since the heating element in ours hasn't worked right in ages and the handle was kind of melting off.

We had chili pie for dinner in honor of Pi Day, unfortunately while we were watching the very bloody start of this week's X-Files with Rose who had stopped by to see us and the cats (I still liked it better than last week's terrible witchcraft story, in part because vampire stereotypes bother me less and in part because of the shippiness). The didactic Designated Survivor always suffers by comparison afterward. Here are some photos from last fall at the Prospect Park Zoo in Brooklyn with Adam:









  • Greetings from Sugarloaf

    Saturday was a gorgeous day, so after lunch we went on the Countryside Artisans spring tour, which is mostly outdoors and socially distanced -- we…

  • Poem for Saturday and Crab Apple Color

    Crab Apple Trees By Larry Schug I’m tempted to say these trees belong to me, take credit for blossoms that gather sunrise like stained glass…

  • Poem for Friday and Locust Grove

    The Good-Morrow By John Donne I wonder by my troth, what thou and I Did, till we loved? Were we not wean'd till then? But suck'd on country…

  • Post a new comment


    Anonymous comments are disabled in this journal

    default userpic

    Your IP address will be recorded