Winter 1999 • Vol. XXI No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 1999 |

Distance

    From up here, the insomniac   river turning in its bed  looks like a line somebody painted   so many years ago it's hard to believe it was ever liquid; a motorboat  winks in the sun and leaves a wake that seals itself in an instant, like the crack    in a hardly broken heart.     And the little straight-faced houses  that with dignity bear the twin burdens of being unique and all alike,   and the leaf-crammed valley like the plate of days that kept on coming and I ate  though laced with poison: I can look over them, from this distance, with an ache    instead of a blinding pain.     Sometimes, off my guard, I half-   remember what it was to be  half-mad: whole seasons gone; the fear  a stranger in the street might ask the time; how feigning normality  became my single, bungled task. What made me right again? I wouldn't dare    to guess; was I let off    

Already have an account? Login

Join KR for even more to read.

Register for a free account to read five free pieces a month from our current issue and digital archive.
Register for Free and Read This Piece



Or become a subscriber today and get complete, immediate access to our digital archives at every subscription level.

Read More

Trompe l’Oeil

By Mary Jo Salter

    From up here, the insomniac   river turning in its bed  looks like a line somebody painted   so many years ago it's hard to believe it was ever liquid; a motorboat  winks in the sun and […]

Up and Down

By Mary Jo Salter

    From up here, the insomniac   river turning in its bed  looks like a line somebody painted   so many years ago it's hard to believe it was ever liquid; a motorboat  winks in the sun and […]

Subscribe

Your free registration with Kenyon review incudes access to exclusive content, early access to program registration, and more.

Donate

With your support, we’ll continue 
to cultivate talent and publish extraordinary literature from diverse voices around the world.