Poetry Primer Passage
The poem looks ordinary enough, at first, dark-haired,
green-eyed, cheerful smile. Her gingham dress,
a classical shirtwaist with red, heart-shaped pockets,
flatters her slender young figure. She pushes her glasses
down on her nose and peers over them at you, holding a primer.
But when you glance away, behind you, toward where
you came from, a hooded cape flutters in your peripheral vision,
a pale skull with dark eye sockets winks in and out of sight,
and bony word-fingers reach toward your face. When you turn
back, the poem smiles again. Sweetly. Blushing slightly.
The primer title touches the curve of the poem's breast,
the title faces away from you, but somehow you know
what it says. Everything has led you to this: A Poet's Primer
of Death. Kindly and with quiet compassion, the poem smiles
at you. You want to turn away; you want to run,
but not many words remain, and you feel compelled
to read on. The poem sweeps her arm toward you, indicates
a seat in her classroom. When she leans over you and opens
the pages of her book on the desk before you, it is a door
that opens, or door of words, light and darkness.
The poem offers you her hand, and together,
surrounded by these words, you walk through,
leaving your crumpled body behind on the other side.
Mary Stebbins Taitt
090527-0938-1b(2), 090527-0918-1st
What kind of perfume is she wearing? What do you smell or taste when the door opens? What does her skin feel like when she touches you?
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