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Rita Dove: Online Poems

Golden Oldie

I made it home early, only to get 
stalled in the driveway-swaying 
at the wheel like a blind pianist caught in a tune 
meant for more than two hands playing. 
The words were easy, crooned 
by a young girl dying to feel alive, to discover 
a pain majestic enough 
to live by. I turned the air conditioning off, 
leaned back to float on a film of sweat, 
and listened to her sentiment: 
Baby, where did our love go?-a lament 
I greedily took in 
without a clue who my lover 
might be, or where to start looking. 

Copyright 1995 Mississippi Review. Online Source


Just when hope withers, the visa is granted. 
The door opens to a street like in the movies, 
clean of people, of cats; except it is your street 
you are leaving. A visa has been granted, 
"provisionally"-a fretful word. 
The windows you have closed behind 
you are turning pink, doing what they do 
every dawn. Here it's gray. The door 
to the taxicab waits. This suitcase, 
the saddest object in the world. 
Well, the world's open. And now through 
the windshield the sky begins to blush 
as you did when your mother told you 
what it took to be a woman in this life.

Copyright 1995 Mississippi Review. Online Source

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