The sofa she lounged on— with Michener, with Updike and Roth— was not burnished, not a throne, but though she’s been dead years now, it burns. Against cloth of Harvest Gold, her curls gleamed— Summer Blonde by Clairol— and bright flecks gilded the glass she drank from, like alluvium washed down from great heights. As for her person, her aspect could vanquish the Stygian gloom of any bar. My sisters and I, no matter the hour, would attend her. Bound as we were, by blood. On occasion, my father would leave the house and return with a paper bag, brimful of Oh! Henrys and Cadbury Creams. She wouldn’t get up. But what there was, she’d polish off in small, tragic bites.
Cynthia White's work has appeared in Adroit, Massachusetts Review, Plume, New Letters, and ZYZZYVA, among others. She was a finalist for Slapering Hol's Poetry Chapbook Prize and the winner of the Julia Darling Memorial Prize for poetry. She lives in Santa Cruz, California.
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The word “astonishing” is so overused in poetry today. But here I am, using it anyway. This poem is, wonderfully, astonishing.
Wonderful, Cynthia, through and through. Kudos.