Fifty years the butcher shop
has hung these animals on hooks
to cure. The stationery store
dispenses the same old news,
same change, a little less silver;
ladies in a beauty shop desire
the perfect permanent.
Mornings this bright
cast the deepest shade;
everything seems to come
from memory. The subway’s elevated.
Down the block toward the river Bronx
each yard has a chain-link fence, a dog
attracted to the random noise.
The woman no one knows is dead is still
in the chair by the bedroom plant.
Stripes advance from the blind
to her lap, slower than the human
eye can see. Above the accidents
of traffic you can hear
her clock and clean refrigerator hum.
Heather McHugh's Other Poems
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Elevated by Heather McHugh )
- If People Were Pooches, Rachel LeBaron
- My heart needs a rest, Jesus James Llorico
- Empty life حياة فارغة, MOHAMMAD SKATI
- Elizabeth my Muse of love poetry., Erato
- I Am Not, Asit Kumar Sanyal
- Empty life, MOHAMMAD SKATI
- I Met Tuckerpuppy and Twittermouse, Bruce Larkin
- Longings et. Al., Nalini Jyotsana Chaturvedi
- About Tuckerpuppy, Bruce Larkin
- Submit, Teach, Love, Trust & Forgive., Tom Zart
Poem of the Day
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
- Heather Burns
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)