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Danielle Minzenberger Poem
You, Anne Sexton-
Why are you here? Don't you know
that my passion's run dry?
I take in your craft
like another addiction;
I give you- poetess- a run
through my veins. Yet it's
all too often my image I see,
my thoughts by your hand, heart
nailed to your words.
Why, Anne Sexton-
on page 153- are you
wearing my mother's image and name?
You're astonishingly,
achingly all too familiar;
the titular mother's got nothing on you.
And when I'm undone
in my mind's dusty corner,
Is that you- Anne Sexton-
teetering posthumously on my windowsill?
Copyright © Danielle Minzenberger | Year Posted 2006
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Danielle Minzenberger Poem
Father-
I hope you know that I see you.
Without permission, my mind's
been sketching you all day.
At once I see you hover,
a whisper away,
a roughed-up scramble of
cartoonist's strokes I couldn't
begin to fill in.
Your unsteady hand is mine.
You assemble your limbs in Jesus Christlike form
and emit your premonition of loneliness,
your prayer.
Father?
Who
are you?
Am I your misplaced mirror, are you
a mirror for my prayers?
Father, your mirror is jagged enough
to invite these weary veins to bleed.
Prayer, your portrait is far too bleak
to adorn the walls of my mind.
Copyright © Danielle Minzenberger | Year Posted 2006
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Danielle Minzenberger Poem
To fear.
To pain.
Cheers to all the things
that keep our hearts
contained.
And that wretch in the mirror.
"Smiles don't suit you, dear."
Apathy's awful, but I wonder if she's right
as I stretch my face muscles
before bed at night.
And I want my life back.
I'd die a hundred times over
for peonies and pyramids to cross my path
before I'm returned
to my place in the dirt.
And I don't know...
I just don't know what to do
when she stirs these abrasive thoughts by hand
and I haven't the strength
to open the mascara tube.
If I'm going to raise my glass to self-pity,
perhaps I should raise a plastic tumbler instead.
Copyright © Danielle Minzenberger | Year Posted 2006
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