By Rita Dove
We live as we dream ... alone.—Joseph Conrad, “Heart of Darkness”I was not born to thiswariness. I came of ageas my kind do—armed with acheand swathed in rectitude,a rough carvingsluiced under a torrentof disregard. Still, I did notsuffer unduly. Most oftenI bore witness: I listened,then took it back into a solitudeneither light nor raincould reach. There I would sitand rock myself warm.I tell you this long pastthe learning of it. I ate quickly,dreamt little, read like a fiend—not quite a shadow,more than a smudge;you begrudged meeven these tremulouspleasures. I came to yougrinning with grief,but if called uponwould not pause to lift up a fist—the only one in the roomwho raises her handwhen no one else speaks,though the answer is obvious.
No comments:
Post a Comment