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Daily Poetics
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Poetry: Dinner with the White Rabbit
Dinner with the White Rabbit
Insanity is not dinner conversation,
but the words leak out of my father’s mouth, ink
covering the silence like wine’s red stain
creeping across white linen. Family secrets
of insanity have been hidden, deep in glass
bottles waiting for the white rabbit
to knock them to the ground and let loose a rabid
disease. My father’s need for conversation
was born of broken glass
and pages scrawled with ink.
The coroner mailed my father’s secrets
back to him, renewing a stain
he had believed forgotten. The stain
of his mother’s warped mind on her rabbit
fur stole, her insanity and the kept secrets
of her imaginary adversaries, and her conversations
with air. The documents covered in ink,
told of broken car windows and shattered glass,
the death of a woman I've known only through glass
panes of picture frames and the stain
she left on my father. The ink
speaks in medical jargon, nothing of the timid rabbit
that woman once was, or the remembered conversations
between her and my father, tainted with disease and full of secrets.
When my father finally allowed those secrets
to fall from his mouth, glass
shattered under the weight of a conversation
he had delayed for fear they would leave the stain
of insanity in my own mind. But that woman’s death let the white rabbit
out of the hole, and the ink
from his pen was the blood in me, and red ink
is always wrought with secrets.
I followed that white rabbit,
the creature who once led that woman through the looking glass.
Her insanity had already left its stain,
but I like the white rabbit. I enjoy our conversations.
Insanity is not dinner conversation,
but the words leak out of my father’s mouth, ink
covering the silence like wine’s red stain
creeping across white linen. Family secrets
of insanity have been hidden, deep in glass
bottles waiting for the white rabbit
to knock them to the ground and let loose a rabid
disease. My father’s need for conversation
was born of broken glass
and pages scrawled with ink.
The coroner mailed my father’s secrets
back to him, renewing a stain
he had believed forgotten. The stain
of his mother’s warped mind on her rabbit
fur stole, her insanity and the kept secrets
of her imaginary adversaries, and her conversations
with air. The documents covered in ink,
told of broken car windows and shattered glass,
the death of a woman I've known only through glass
panes of picture frames and the stain
she left on my father. The ink
speaks in medical jargon, nothing of the timid rabbit
that woman once was, or the remembered conversations
between her and my father, tainted with disease and full of secrets.
When my father finally allowed those secrets
to fall from his mouth, glass
shattered under the weight of a conversation
he had delayed for fear they would leave the stain
of insanity in my own mind. But that woman’s death let the white rabbit
out of the hole, and the ink
from his pen was the blood in me, and red ink
is always wrought with secrets.
I followed that white rabbit,
the creature who once led that woman through the looking glass.
Her insanity had already left its stain,
but I like the white rabbit. I enjoy our conversations.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
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