Carolyn Forché Poems
|4.||The Memory of Elena||5/20/2016|
|8.||Taking Off My Clothes||5/20/2016|
|11.||The Ghost of Heaven||11/25/2015|
|13.||The Morning Baking||1/13/2003|
|15.||The Garden Shukkei-En||1/13/2003|
|16.||The Testimony Of Light||1/13/2003|
|17.||Poem For Maya||1/13/2003|
What you have heard is true. I was in his house.
His wife carried a tray of coffee and sugar. His
daughter filed her nails, his son went out for the
night. There were daily papers, pet dogs, a pistol
on the cushion beside him. The moon swung bare on
its black cord over the house. On the television
was a cop show. It was in English. Broken bottles
were embedded in the walls around the house to
scoop the kneecaps from a man's legs or cut his
hands to lace. On the windows there were gratings
like those in liquor stores. We had dinner, rack of
The page opens to snow on a field: boot-holed month, black hour
the bottle in your coat half voda half winter light.
To what and to whom does one say yes?
If God were the uncertain, would you cling to him?
Beneath a tattoo of stars the gate open, so silent so like a tomb.
This is the city you most loved, an empty stairwell
where the next rain lifts invisibly from the Seine.