And (Princeton Princeton Series of Contemporary Poets) by Debora Greger

By Debora Greger

From the name poem:


pink as useless shrimp, the unborn curls in its tide pool--seed pearl

whose mom lusters over irritant love it's too past due to dislodge;

little anemone, shrinking from contact. So and holds separate what it such a lot heavily binds.


"Ms. Greger's poems ensue on the aspect of stumble upon among the brain and the realm of topic. . . . And it's the resistance of the true and the expanding urgency the poet feels in attempting to extinguish her solitude . . . that make those poems emotional."--The manhattan occasions ebook Review

Originally released in 1985.

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Extra resources for And (Princeton Princeton Series of Contemporary Poets) (Princeton Legacy Library)

Sample text

Forgetfulness sweeps up broken flower pots, upended cakes of dirt tipsily celebrating dry years to come, beetles feasting on abandon— as if again, beneath palms arranged in choirs, winter lettuce and voluptuous orchids grow for the mansion, the mansion that isn't there. Candles flowering in fingerbowls, pheasant breast sliced on gold-leafed platter, creamy napkin blotting reddened lips— Sister, the math is simple: in houses of the stories that offered escape from the childhood we called dull, we would have been the servants, the view from our attic room over the master's fair prospects a calendar's scene, grander lives built from engravers' cross-hatched days the way mortals appear on paper money, ageless faces just lines green as the lawns their gardeners rolled, as the limes they had pleached down the path to the mausoleum.

Beneath an entrance ramp to nothing but unetched lanes of sky, a skater cuts between cars through shadow's pilings. To dodge, to touch—feather breaking air bubbles so acid can bite, or ribbon of shade tying hands apart—without irony, on love's lasting, optimistic as this city where what's built wrong goes down to earthquake, mudslide, wrecking ball before age has its chance. Full sleeves tied back, as he etched with the needle what he remembered, reversed, he spoke to the plate the anthology of decay.

Their side of the discreet hedge, neighbors follow suit. Along summer evenings, you'll hear air turn water—sprinklers' reliable rain, play screams of swimmers teasing the mockingbirds' copied, liquid notes. We'll sell you a sense of island, screened porch tacked to converted stables— the mansion itself has gone to tracts— from whose upper windows you can make out, over the billows of trees, a strip of Sound, not much compared to the turquoise belt of pools the neighborhood sports but if the wind is right the foghorn carries, and fog you'll have paid for—as if through it, dew beading on his brilliant shoes, on a silver tray a man would bear an invitation's white meat—you've read your Fitzgerald.

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