long since abandoned. Whose
Gore-Tex boots crunch old snow?
Grown kids, wearing shrouds
of black trashbags, stumbling, go
past up crippled brick streets.
This is the only Eden I know.
I hunch at a window, faint heat
smelling like burnt lint blistering
numb knuckles, and I sketch feats
of heroes on napkins, crumpling
failed words, nose dripping, stale
coffee spilled like blood crusting.
Ripe sunlight suddenly cracks pale
washes of clouds, strikes high
city windows. Molten gold frail
as breath blinds my aching eyes.
The crushed napkin of dumb lines
falls off the table. Paradise
creeps in as the city burns. Shines.
Lydia R. Cooper will receive her Ph.D. in English Literature
from
BaylorUniversity.
At
Baylor,
she has met poets from Paul Muldoon to Derek Wolcott at the annual Beall Poetry
Festival, which she helped host this last year. The festival is the highlight
of her year. She writes poetry when she is not reading it.
