Ute Carbone
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Inside the Writer's Garret

On writing and life, with a little chocolate thrown in from time to time.

In Honor of #WorldPoetryDay

3/21/2017

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Three Poems from the Collection Gathering Dust in My Closet
​
Gypsy

​I dance on foreign ground
always teasing out
the unfamiliar with my toe,
moving town to town
​selling snake oil from the back
of a painted wagon.

At night the moon comes up,
full and wagging light,
​a silver dollar for me to follow
making that empty shell of a promise again:
​This time, I will bring you home.


​Mother Tongue
​I spoke you first.
​You, with your guttural clacking

Ich being Deutch
​Not Ik.
​You must stick the word in your throat,
hawk it up.

​Your words are lullabies,
the fairy tales that clicked in my ear.
I was breast fed on them.
​I held them in the gully of my mouth.

​I write in a different language now,
​write in impossibly lengthy words garnered from a collegiate dictionary

I have forsaken you
​Left you for dead like the Latin I learned
in the eighth grade.
​I can't remember how to say your name
Can't remember how to say I love you.




Bridges
​​The bridge I crossed to the schoolyard
​was old brick and asphalt suspended
​over a highway.
Every morning, I pledged allegiance
​to a nation and a strange new language
​I stood with my hand over my heart,
​sang God Bless America
​as though it were the land of my birth.

​At home, Mutti cooked apples and potatoes,
​​Himmel und Erde,
Heaven and Earth.
​Old songs rose from her throat
​as she remembered Oma's kitchen,
She would have built bridges over oceans
​for the embrace of Oma's arms.

​
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