I’m sorry I don’t have more time to talk about today’s poem and poet, but I did want to get it out in a timely manner. Maybe someone can take over for me? Marilyn Hacker (b. 1942) writes ephemeral, lapidary poems, hence her anagram, "my rain chalker." She was long-listed for this year’s National Book Award, and I hope you enjoy this one! -ed.
Her brown falcon perches above the sink
as steaming water forks over my hands.
Below the wrists they shrivel and turn pink.
I am in exile in my own land.
Her half-grown cats scuffle across the floor
trailing a slime of blood from where they fed.
I lock the door. They claw under the door.
I am an exile in my own bed.
Her spotted mongrel, bristling with red mange,
sleeps on the threshold of the Third Street bar
where I drink brandy as the couples change.
I am in exile where my neighbors are.
On the pavement, cans of ashes burn.
Her green lizard scuttles from the light
around torn cardboard charred to glowing fern.
I am in exile in my own sight.
Her blond child sits on the stoop when I come
back at night. Cold hands, blue lids; we both
need sleep. She tells me she is going to die.
I am in exile in my own youth.
Lady of distances, this fire, this water,
this earth makes sanctuary where I stand.
Call off your animals and your blond daughter,
I am in exile in my own hands.