| Poem for Thursday |
[Mar. 6th, 2003|10:38 am] |
Exit
By Rita Dove
Just when hope withers, the visa is granted.
The door opens to a street like in the movies,
clean of people, of cats; except it is your street
you are leaving. A visa has been granted,
"provisionally" -- a fretful word.
The windows you have closed behind
you are turning pink, doing what they do
every dawn. Here it's gray. The door
to the taxicab waits. This suitcase,
the saddest object in the world.
Well, the world's open. And now through
the windshield the sky begins to blush
as you did when your mother told you
what it took to be a woman in this life.
![[info]](http://www.deadjournal.com:8080/userinfo.gif) chrismm's questions for this meme:
1. What scent is anxiety?
Onions.
2. What does peace sound like?
A waterfall, a campfire, the first movement of Mozart's Concerto For Flute and
Harp.
3. What does sunshine taste like?
Key lime pie.
4. What color is joy?
Really intense violet-purple, the sky just at dusk.
5. What does jealousy feel like?
Swallowing whole a very hot pepper that gets stuck in your throat.
And my questions:
1. What flavor is your favorite song?
2. What color is your favorite television show?
3. What's the scent of frustration?
4. What does a bad romance sound like?
5. How does anticipation make your skin feel? |
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