Poem
All those years
of trying to understand
which of this is her
which of this is me?
Getting at the truth
was always so confusing
amidst her craziness;
how to separate?
And though the shrink said
put her in a box –
I never quite could
Weather in which I might be
elsewhere, lounging
book in hand, Tim Tams
(dark, perhaps), tea a given,
instead of the uphill pram push of swaying kids,
singing drunkenly –
what a coachman circa 1840
or his horse felt, probably,
In ABR's second 'Poem of the Week' ABR Editor Peter Rose introduces and reads his poem 'The Subject of Feeling'.
... (read more)I can’t speak my grandmother’s tongue and I’ve never been on my grandfather’s land. I’ve traveled here and I’ve traveled there, my culture is fabricated in government-funded laboratories ... ... (read more)