Excerpts from Watching Brodkey Die
He watched himself so honestly
he cleared our vision too.
We read his death in The New Yorker—
a magazine death,
Brodkey fragmenting in words.
...
He told us the self he thought he was
died before he died, leaving him
curiously unconcerned about the demise
of the new stranger in his bed.
... we saw how thin was the carapace
of our own self-constructions;
and, strangely,
how beautiful are the hands
of those that care for us.
— © Lynna Howard, all rights reserved
BEE DANCE
A smallish bumble bee
dwarfed by bigger droners
lights on a raspberry blossom
gives a little orgasmic tremble
complete with stomping Gaelic dance
and proceeds to the next flower.
All abumble at the abundance,
he drunkenly weaves
and I think that life must be
for the time being
like a good pub
where the light
shines like whiskey.
—©Lynna Howard lynna.howard@mac.com
A poetry review from Luke Fire: I don't know if you had at all intended it this way, and it's meant to be a compliment, but when I read 'Bee Dance', I instantly thought of Seamus Heaney.
