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 More on poetry from The Atlantic Monthly. Also by Laura Newbern: Dance (1997) |
Pain
by Laura Newbern .....  Hear Laura Newbern read this poem (in RealAudio)The mailman is drunk. It is spring. It is spring and the mailman is drunk, I see him shaking his way down the wet street from my window, which is pretty. My pretty window the mailman is drunk in, out in his slicker and bright boots—did I say it is raining? Rain and the mailman is drunk, and eight, only eight homes on this street, and he is crashing into air in the middle— I love him for this, love him drunk, in rain, in the green pain oblivion is— Is it sick, or strange placing myself here in the story, his green princess? I did say it is spring, and I see him, and see the leaves, slappy wet, begin to make for the mailman a frame, a frame shaped like a leafy heart, a heart as leafy as if he— as if we were, this raining morning, happy.
Copyright © 2001 by The Atlantic Monthly Group. All rights reserved. The Atlantic Monthly; December 2001; Pain; Volume 288, No. 5; 104. | [an error occurred while processing this directive] | ||
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