Tuesday, January 10, 2012

three poems by lucille clifton


untitled

this belief
in the magic of whiteness,
that it is the smooth
pebble in your hand,
that it is the godmother's
best gift,
that it explains,
allows,
assures,
entitles,
that it can sprout singular blossoms
like jack's bean
and singular verandas from which
to watch them rise,
it is a spell
winding round on itself,
grimms' awful fable,
and it turns into capetown and johannesburg
as surely as the beanstalk leads
to the giant's actual country
where jack lies broken at the
meadow's edge
and the land is in ruins,
no magic, no anything.


incantation
overheard in the hospital

pluck the hairs
from the head
of a virgin.
sweep them into the hall.
take a needle
thin as a lash,
puncture the doorway
to her blood.
here is the magic word:
cancer.
cancer.
repeat it, she will
become her own ghost.
repeat it, she will
follow you, she will
do whatever you say.


from shapeshifter poems

4.

the poem at the end of the world
is the poem the little girl breathes
into her pillow     the one
she cannot tell     the one
there is no one to hear      this poem
is a political poem     is a war poem     is a
universal poem but is not about
these things      this poem
is about one human heart     this poem
is the poem at the end of the world

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