Claudia Grinnell
Write What You Know
I know my foot,
the right one, the unlucky one,
the one broken once while skiing:
a mismatch between slope
and talent. The one broken again
when a door fell on it. The one
nibbled at, peed on, and licked
by a blind, asthmatic dog.
I know my hand, the sinister one,
the one willing to hold the knife,
the one thin like fog, early in March,
the one doubting its own existence,
even when held against the light.
I know my eyes, more northernly
than my mouth, and always ready
to believe in a moon: how romantic,
how sensible, how beautiful,
how useful. This moon, a lantern,
hanging (how poetic) from a tall pine,
just for me, lighting my way.
A moment comes
when I forget: the places
where I am mortal.
Claudia Grinnell lives in Monroe, Louisiana where, at the time of her submission, it had been raining for 48 hours. She has been known to drink buttermilk for breakfast. See more of Claudia's work here.
Email Claudia Grinnell at ckgrinnell@gumballpoetry.com.
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