The Little Review (littlereview) wrote,
The Little Review

Poem for Thursday and Winter 1999

By Natasha Trethewey

We mourn the broken things, chair legs
wrenched from their seats, chipped plates,
the threadbare clothes. We work the magic
of glue, drive the nails, mend the holes.
We save what we can, melt small pieces
of soap, gather fallen pecans, keep neck bones
for soup. Beating rugs against the house,
we watch dust, lit like stars, spreading
across the yard. Late afternoon, we draw
the blinds to cool the rooms, drive the bugs
out. My mother irons, singing, lost in reverie.
I mark the pages of a mail-order catalog,
listen for passing cars. All day we watch
for the mail, some news from a distant place.


Wednesday was pretty uneventful -- we had some rain, then the temperature dropped a lot, so we had cats fighting over Cinnamon's heated throw and I was glad we got out to walk before the second wave of rain came through. We saw a couple of deer, several bunnies, and a lot of irises, and I'd rather it be a long cool spring than a long hot summer. My computer is still downloading my articles from Google Drive but I did some scanning.

Evening TV of course was The Masked Singer, and I'm getting pissed that everyone thinks the obviously pretty white boy band member Turtle should win instead of the Night Angel (I wasn't so sorry the Kitty got unmasked when I saw who it was). Afterward, we watched What We Do in the Shadows, a hilarious Colin-focused episode that made me realize Donald Trump is an energy vampire. Here are some scans from December 1999:







  • 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…

  • Poem for Thursday and Canal in Spring

    Happiness By Jane Kenyon There’s just no accounting for happiness, or the way it turns up like a prodigal who comes back to the dust at your…

  • Post a new comment


    Anonymous comments are disabled in this journal

    default userpic

    Your IP address will be recorded