Song without Strings

This entry is part 62 of 63 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Autumn 2011


Today I want to remember, but remember
beyond mere recognition. To break
the chain that holds the gate in place,

that keeps these soggy woods soggy
under a ponderous gray sky. Where
is the props man? Have him haul up

that sky and lower one in a more
pleasing color: multi-flora. You have
no idea what it takes to sustain

this effort, to remember (I carry
four flesh stumps held to a piece
of gauze by the silver prong

of a safety pin). Tip the bucket
over, let the little stippled fish
swim to the moon. Take it back,

clean its insides of kelp
and constricted tissue. Use it as
a cup from which to drink today

like a woman who isn’t a mother:
just a woman, just a girl who wants
to sit in this chair with no need

to get up real soon, who wants warm
light to love all of her back, who
wants a sip of cold clear water.


In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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3 Replies to “Song without Strings”


    Warm light on the back are familiar fingers
    but they will not be back as caresses again.
    They can only unravel bandages of wounds
    that will not heal but will not feel any pain.
    I am done with them. All feelings betray us
    before they become clear: they sap courage,
    and quickly turn into skeletons of passion.
    I want to be a woman, not a chair to catch
    torn and tired bodies that need mending.
    I, too, hanker for strength from the strong,
    unquenchable hunger I could eagerly satisfy
    when it finds its harbor and home in a place
    I, and only I, can shape or rearrange or own,
    or drink like a glass of cold water to cool me
    down when I have no more need for loving.

    —Albert B. Casuga

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