Fall 1989 • Vol. XI No. 4 PoetryOctober 1, 1989 |

The Confusion of Planes We Must Wander in Sleep

I stood naked in the corner as my mother changed the wet sheets and clucked her tongue though spoke as kindly as she could, my father stirring angrily in the bed across the hall. Lost, my legs sheened in piss, I stumbled around, drugged with the kind of grieving children practice to survive. I was apart from the cold and the heavy smell. I was not attached to the world though I followed my young and weary mother into the timeless dark,              and tonight I pull my own son's blankets back and speak to him: how nice a dry bed will be, how good to get up without a fuss and go. I lift him to stand, his penis a wand waving its way magically before us, and something makes sense for once in my head, the way that what we pass on is not always a gift, not always grace or strength or music, but sometimes a burden, that we have no choice but to live as hard as we can inside the storm of our years and that even the weaknesses are a kind of beauty for the way they

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My Waiting Brain

By Bruce Weigl

I stood naked in the corner as my mother changed the wet sheets and clucked her tongue though spoke as kindly as she could, my father stirring angrily in the […]

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