Quote of the Day
Eavan
Boland – In His Own Image
I was not
myself, myself.
The celery
feathers,
the bacon
flitch,
the cups
deep on the shelf
and my
cheek
coppered
and shone
in the
kettle's paunch, my mouth
blubbed in
the tin of the pan –
they were
all I had to go on.
How could I
go on
With such
meager proofs of myself?
I woke day
after day.
Day after
day I was gone.
From the
self I was last night.
And then he
came home tight.
Such a
simple definition!
How did I
miss it?
Now I see
that all I
needed
was a hand
to mould my mouth
to scald my
cheek,
was this
concussion
by whose
lights I find
my
self-possession,
where I
grow complete.
He splits
ma lip with his fist,
shadows my
eye with a blow,
knuckles my
neck to its proper angle.
What a
perfectionist!
His are a
sculptor's hands:
they summon
form from
the void, they bring
me to
myself again.
I am a new
woman.
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