Thursday, April 21, 2011

The Book -- Adrienne Rich

You, hiding there in your words
like a disgrace
the cast-off son of a family
whose face is written in theirs
who much not be mentioned
who calls collect three times a year
from obscure towns out-of-state
and whose calls are never accepted
You who had to leave alone
and forgot your shadow hanging under the stairs
let me tell you:  I have been in the house
I have spoken to all of them
they will not pronounce your name
they only allude to you
rising and sitting, going or coming,
falling asleep and waking,
giving away in marriage or calling for water
on their deathbeds
their faces look into each other and see
when they write at night in their diaries they are writing
to you